Kansas 2: The Yellow Brick Road
by Soledad
Summary: The long-overdue sequel to Still Not in Kansas. Crossover with Start Trek Voyager. Slightly AU and getting more so as it grows. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Rating:** PG-13, most likely

**Series:** B5/Star Trek crossovers (independent pieces). A sequel to "Still Not In Kansas."

**Archiving:** sure, just ask first

**Disclaimer:** Babylon 5 belongs to JMS and Time Warner. Star Trek – Voyager belongs to Gene Roddenberry and whoever else keeps the rights at the moment. I'm just borrowing their characters to have a little fun. No harm intended and (alas!) no money made.

**Timeline:** Late Season 3 for B5 (from after "Grey 17 is Missing" possibly during two or three episodes), early Season 4 for _Voyager_, but Kes is still on board and has not evolved into an elated being

**Summary:** _Voyager_ discovers another wormhole/anomaly. Instruments state that it leads to the Epsilon Eridani system in the AQ. Everyone is happy, as this would mean they might end up somewhere near Vulcan. However, the anomaly leads to a different universe, and they end up right in front of B5. While they are waiting for the anomaly to reappear, they get involved in the life of the station. Would they ever find a way back to their own universe?

**

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A SHORT FOREWORD

This story is the direct continuation of my very first Babylon 5 fanfic, the one titled "Still Not in Kansas". You really should read that one first, or many things in this one won't make much sense.

This has become an independent story for the simple reason that I didn't want "Kansas" to go on indefinitely. So I ended it where it became a strong possibility that Draal and the Great Machine would be able to help the _Voyager_ people to get back to their own universe. The sequel will show how it would happen – if it would happen at all.

In most of my fandoms (save one) I write crossovers and AUs. This story is no exception. As I like both Babylon 5 and Star Trek, I tried to stay as close as canon as possible. Mistakes can always happen, of course, despite the ungodly amount of research I've done. Also, since this is an AU, some things _are_ different. But only those that were necessary for this story to work.

"The Yellow Brick Road" is, of course, another 'The Wizard of Oz" reference. It seemed somehow fitting, despite of its silliness as a story title.

**

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**

PART 01

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the Introduction.

This chapter (and the following ones) contains elements of the Babylon 5 episode "And the Rock Cried Out No Hiding Place". However, I skipped the visit of the religious representatives, as it would have made me deal with too many protagonists. I focused on the Centauri storyline instead and simply assumed that Sheridan still had his sources on Earth.

Also, I'm aware that Barbie dolls probably won't exist in the 23rd century anymore. But it's a reference that 21st century readers will understand, so I decided to keep it. Besides, as teddy bears canonically do exist in the B5 universe, I thought I could stretch a little the limits of credibility. *g*

* * *

Commander's personal log, December 7, 2260

There's an old Chinese curse that says: _May you live in interesting times!_ Well, the recent days have confirmed me that we must have upset at least half all Chinese people living on Earth _and_ on the various Earth colonies in our previous lives – assuming that the Minbari are right about this rebirth thing.

Babylon 5 has always been an… _interesting_ place, but last week has topped everything I've seen here in the last two and half years… and that's saying a _lot_. We have barely recovered from the loss of Kosh – the original one – _and_ Jeff Sinclair in short succession, when Franklin left us, too. He's still on walkabout. No one's seen him for over a week. I hope he's all right and will work this through, soon. We gonna need him back in MedLabs. Lillian Hobbs is an excellent doctor, but she's got nowhere near the knowledge and experience when it comes to alien races that Franklin has.

With Jeff gone, Delenn of all people was chosen as the new leader of the Rangers – which led to great displeasure on Minbar, especially among the Warrior Caste who considered the Rangers as their own responsibility; not that they've cared much for them in the last thousand years or so. One of the Warrior leaders, Alyt Neroon, was determined to prevent Delenn's inauguration as Ranger One, and our resident Ranger, Marcus Cole, nearly gave his life to protect her. He's still in MedLab, with three broken ribs and other severe injuries. As annoying as he sometimes can be, seeing him like this is not easy.

The strangest thing is, though, that he and Neroon seemed to have come to some kind of understanding. Neroon visited him several times before leaving aboard the _Ingata_, and when he finally did leave, he left his young nephew, Rastenn, behind – apparently to _learn_ from Marcus. Wonders never cease to exist, it seems… especially considering the fact that Rastenn has apparently developed a friendship with Vir Cotto, of all peope! A young, arrogant, impatient Minbari warrior made friends with the meekest, most intimidated Centauri the Republic has ever bred.

Did I really say this was the strangest thing that has happened lately? Well, I was wrong. The _really_ weird thing – more shocking even than the new Vorlon ambassador – was the appearance of _Voyager_. An Earth ship from the future as well as from a different universe; a ship that had crossed a spatial anomaly and ended up right before our doorstep.

We're trying to keep its presence as low-key as possible, but on Babylon 5, there aren't really any secrets. Everything will be revealed sooner or later, just like the existence of a previously unknown level of Grey Sector, which Night Watch and other militant Pro-Earth organizations have used as their home base in all these years… and we hadn't even known!

Now, aside from preparing ourselves for the next, probably disastrous battle against the Shadows, we'll also have to deal with the captured Night Watch members and hunt down the ones still on the loose aboard the station. It won't be an easy thing to do. We can't know what other hidden places are there on Babylon 5, where more such enemies can be hiding – and we can't trust the safety of our comm system, either.

Fortunately, _Voyager_ is assisting us in this matter. She's a small ship, but her technology is far more advanced than what even the Minbari have. Hopefully, her shields will prevent the freeing of the prisoners and an infiltration of the comm system. Also, her chief of security has offered to help us with the finding of further infiltrators.

Too bad that they can't get actively involved in the upcoming war. In that, Captain Janeway was adamant, and to a certain extent I even understand her reasoning. They belong to a different universe, and getting involved with ours, it could cause devastating effects. Still, their presence alone is a wonder that gives us hope. In a different reality, Earth has managed to overcome the petty power struggles and become part of a large interstellar alliance. Perhaps, if we survive the current crisis, something similar can happen with us, too. Ivanova out.

* * *

About a week or so after Ambassador Delenn's inauguration as the leader of the Anla'shok – or, as humans called them, the Rangers – Commander Chakotay, First officer of the Federation starship _Voyager_ (currently trapped in the past of an alternate Earth) left his ship to visit the MedLabs of Babylon 5. Or, to be more accurate, to visit the _de facto_ leader of said facilities, a certain Dr. Lillian Hobbs, for whom he'd developed more than just a professional interest since their arrival.

Quite frankly, he was surprised himself by the speed with which he'd fallen for the pretty doctor; he wasn't a young cadet anymore to have a crush at the first lovely woman coming his way. It even scared him a little – enough to almost ruin everything at the first date, out of caution. Luckily for him, they'd found the courage to talk about it, and things seemed promising once again. He was determined _not_ to ruin his second chance with Lillian. As Sam Wildman had said, he needed a nice woman in his life, even though there were no guarantees how long they'll remain in this reality. Command – even second-hand command – tended to make people very lonely, and he'd had enough from being alone.

Leaving the docking bay, he walked by Customs, where he saw quite a crowd lining up for departure. In the middle of the crowd stood Michael Garibaldi, Babylon 5's chief of security, sorting through the waiting people and giving them individual destinations.

"Indira, Magda," he read out, and a fragile, dark-skinned woman wrapped into a sari raised a slim brown hand, richly decorated with thin golden rings. "You're with the Pak'ma'ra," Garibaldi told her.

She nodded and followed a weird-looking alien to Departure: a large, bald-headed, stooped creature with bulbous eyes and facial tentacles. Chakotay didn't envy her. What little he'd learned about the carrion-eater Pak'ma'ra wouldn't make him wish to serve on one of their ships. Their stench alone could upset a sensitive stomach – and not just that of a vegetarian.

"Nakari," Garibaldi turned to a curly-haired man with a vague Middle-Eastern look, "you're to rendezvous with the Narn Resistance in Sector 40." The man nodded and went on his way. Garibaldi thanked him and looked at the female Minbari next in the queue. "Ardiri, you and Glendora here," he pointed with his chin at an exotic-looking older woman of uncertain origins, "are assigned to…"

At this moment he discovered Chakotay and handed his notepad to his deputy at once. "Zack, can you take over for me? I'll be back in a moment."

"Sure, Chief," Zack Allen was used to such things and continued in Garibaldi's stead without a beat.

The security chief himself walked over to Chakotay. "Commander," he said. "What can I do for you? Is there a problem with your… _houseguests_?"

He was referring to the captured Night Watch members, currently being held in _Voyager_'s brig, which was the only place their buddies won't be able to find them. Chakotay shook his head.

"No; I'm actually on my way to the MedLab to check on Marcus' condition. Some of our people have grown very fond of him and are concerned about his well-being. I just saw this crowd here and was curious what's going on."

"We are shipping out telepaths as fast as we can to the races that have signed up against the Shadows," Garibaldi explained. "Upon arrival, they'll be assigned to warships already on patrol."

"Right," Chakotay nodded. "Captain Sheridan told us that these Shadow vessels are vulnerable against telepathic interference. They are steered by cyborgs, aren't they?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call them cyborgs," Garibaldi sounded a little defensive. "It's not so that the poor devils had _chosen_ to be crammed full of implants, so that they can interface with those awful ships directly."

"But their connection with the ships can be broken by telepaths, can't it?" Chakotay asked.

"Exactly," Garibaldi shuddered. "That's why we've been hiring telepath volunteers for some time by now; we hope to even out the odds a little."

"What exactly _are_ those odds?" Chakotay asked quietly. "Can you really hope to stop the Shadows with the means that are at your disposal?"

Garibaldi shrugged. "Honestly? I don't know. But we have to try, at the very least. Right now, Sheridan is coordinating the defence with what's left from the League of Non-Aligned Worlds. He hardly ever leaves the war room any more. He tries not to show it, but one can see the exhaustion in his eyes. But he's still hoping, and as long as he does, we won't give up, either. I wish I could help him, but I never understood much about tactics. Sure, I fought in the Earth-Minbari war like everyone else, but I was just a ground-pounder."

"Perhaps I can help a little," Chakotay offered. "I used to run seminars of Advanced Tactical Training at Starfleet Academy; and I have a great deal of experience in fighting against impossible odds."

"You can try," Garibaldi answered with a shrug, "although I can't tell if he's gonna accept. I hope he will, but I don't know him the way I used to know Sinclair – and he won't listen to me the way Sinclair did… well, sometimes."

"But not always, did he?" Chakotay asked, with an understanding twinkle in his eye. That was the eternal woe of people in the second line of command; something he, too, knew all too well.

"Not always; actually, more often not," Garibaldi admitted. "But at least he listened, even if he went off to do the direct opposite afterwards. The only one _Sheridan_ listens nowadays is Delenn."

"Then you should reach him through her," Chakotay suggested.

Garibaldi gave him a baleful look. "You're kidding, right? Have you ever tried to make a _Minbari_ listen? That bonecrest isn't the only reason they're called boneheads, you know."

"I've heard similar statements concerning Vulcans all my life," Chakotay replied with a shrug. "Or Klingons. Or even Bajorans, who can be maddeningly stubborn sometimes. But when you take a closer look you'll see that they are just _people_, like everyone else: good and bad, valiant and cowardly, stupid and wise… depending on what they have to face. As long as they are on your side, you shouldn't give up the effort to try reasoning with them."

"Is that what you do?" Garibaldi asked doubtfully.

"That's what I _try_," Chakotay corrected, "unless I'm dealing with Torres. Or with Paris. Them, I simply threaten. That's faster and more efficient in their case."

They both laughed, then Garibaldi made an apologetic gesture. "I'll need to go back to these guys in a moment, Commander. Have you heard anything about the… interviewing of your houseguest? I thought it would be done right after Delenn's inauguration, but it has been eleven days already…"

"We've been waiting for Ms Alexander to get better," Chakotay explained. "It's clear that our… guests won't say anything voluntarily, and Tuvok put his foot down concerning a forced mind-meld. He did it last time – extremely unwillingly, I must add – to get you people out alive from Grey 17, but he adamantly refuses to do so again. That's a very strong cultural taboo with Vulcans and is considered on the same line as physical rape."

"They're right about that," Garibaldi said, remembering the times when telepaths had simply intruded his mind without asking permission. Then he frowned as the whole statement made _click_. "Wait a minute, things like that happen with Vulcans, too? I thought they were all cold and restrained and stuff."

"It's very rare," Chakotay admitted, "but as I said, they're just people, like everyone else. And they're a violent people, in the heart of their hearts. That's why they undergo all that steel-hard discipline voluntarily. Because they know all too well how much they need it."

"And still…" Garibaldi trailed off uncertainly.

"They're calm and disciplined as a _people_, "Chakotay clarified. "There are always _individuals_ who can't quite grow up to social expectations, though. Or those who've simply gone mad for some reason. As I said: it's extremely rare, but yes, such things do happen. Even on Vulcan. Not that you'd have anything to fear from our resident Vulcans," he added smiling. "They're all fairly stable. Starfleet screens its future members very carefully before accepting them; and T'Ral has been a close acquaintance of mine for years. I'd vouch for all three of them without a second thought."

"Well if that isn't a relief," Garibaldi said sarcastically, making the other man understand that while he was grateful for the saving of his life, he still didn't know them well enough to trust them unconditionally – if, indeed, he _was_ capable of such trust towards anyone else but Sinclair. "Look, I really have to…"

Chakotay smiled. "You really have to return to your work, I know. And I'm expected in the MedLabs. Good day, Mr. Garibaldi. I'll see you aboard _Voyager_, soon."

* * *

The MedLabs were a welcome contrast to the hectic activity at Customs; they were calm, quiet and reasonably well-lit, which seemed to be a rare thing on Babylon 5. Chakotay wondered why. Starfleet space stations were, as a rule, as brightly illuminated as Starfleet ships – with the notable exception of Deep Space Nine, that is. Until now, he'd always dismissed the darkened look of DS9 as a result of oppressive Cardassian architecture. Now he began to wonder whether it was a typical trait for frontier stations, where resources had to be used with more care than in the heart of the Federation.

In any case, he found the room of Marcus Cole a reasonably pleasant one. The Ranger himself still looked like Death warmed over, but considering what he'd been put through during his fight with the older, much stronger Minbari Alyt, that was not surprising.

Neither was the presence of _Voyager_'s very own Harry Kim, who'd asked permission to visit his newfound friend less than an hour earlier. He'd even brought his clarinet, in case Marcus would feel like listening to some music, but was not currently playing. His instrument in his hand, he was busily staring daggers at the Ranger's other visitor.

It was a young Minbari in full Warrior Caste regalia, which meant that he was wearing black on black… a fairly forbidding presence, despite his youthful face. Said face already wore the arrogant expression of self-proclaimed superiority so typical for Minbari warriors – at least according to Captain Sheridan who'd given the command staff of _Voyager_ a crash course on the Warrior Caste, right after Delenn's inauguration.

It was unpleasantly familiar to the expression Chakotay had seen on the face of Cardassian soldiers. As if the entire universe would belong to them by birthright, and everyone else ought to bend to their will. Like that young Gul who'd used to run the Lazon Two labour camp – until the bomb Ken Dalby had so carefully placed exploded into his face, blowing it away, together with that smug expression.

"Arrogant pup!" Chakotay murmured, not even sure if he meant the now dead Cardassian or the young Minbari warrior at Marcus' bedside.

"Quite," the warm voice of Lillian answered in agreement, and the lady doctor came to stand next to him, their hands brushing briefly. "but you must forgive him. Being the heir and nephew of Alyt Neroon, current head of the Star Riders Clan and once a member of the Grey Council that used to be the ruling body of Minbar, isn't an easy fate. Especially for someone as young as Rastenn is."

"How do you know?" Chakotay asked with a frown.

"That he's young?" Lillian clarified. "Look at his bonecrest: it's shorter than that of fully adult warriors, which means he's still growing – and so is his headbone."

"Like the antler of a Terran deer?"

"Exactly. Lennier explained it to us when we realized that _his_ bone is still growing, too. It's an interesting phenomenon, actually."

"I'll take your word for it," Chakotay shrugged. "However, I meant where do you know so much about the boy's family background?"

Lillian smiled. "He's been telling about it – to Marcus, that is – for days. Apparently, Alyt Neroon has come to the conclusion that Marcus is _id'Minbari_…"

"Id… _what_?"

"A human with a Minbari soul," Lillian explained calmly. "Minbari strongly believe in reincarnation, and when their numbers began to diminish, for a while they were greatly concerned about the fate of those seemingly lost souls. Until they _realized_," she gave the word proper emphasis to signalize that she didn't really believe all this, "that Minbari souls were reborn in humans."

"Well, that seems a bit… far-fetched," Chakotay said.

Lillian shrugged. "Their esoteric solution to a purely mathematic problem, I guess," she said. "We should be grateful for it, though. It saved our entire race, after all."

"How that?" Chakotay was more than a little bewildered.

"Minbari are not allowed to kill other Minbari," Lillian explained. "There hasn't been a murder case on Minbar since Valen's Ban was declared – which was a thousand years ago, give or take a few, I'm told. So, since they mustn't kill other Minbari, and since they somehow discovered that some humans have Minbari souls…"

"They called off the entire war on the brink of an overwhelming victory, just to avoid killing their own by accident," Chakotay finished, putting the random pieces of information he'd heard and read so far together.

Lillian nodded. "According to Dr. Franklin, who knows a lot more about these things than most of us, it was a Religious Caste decision. The warriors weren't told the reason, and some of them still can't forgive that they had to surrender to an already beaten enemy. As a former member of the Grey Council, Alyt Neroon was told, of course – but I don't think he truly believed it; not until Marcus challenged him to a fight to the death."

"Yes, I remember his speech in front of the assembled congregation," Chakotay said. "He seems to be an honourable man, with strong principles. Unfortunately, such people often cause a lot more harm than simple criminals."

"Simple criminals are opportunistic and value their own hide more than anything else," Lillian agreed. "Men with strong principles often sacrifice more for _the case_, whatever that might be, than it is worth."

"It all comes down to measure and discretion, I guess," Chakotay said thoughtfully. "Anything can cause great harm if driven to the extreme… even valour."

Lillian laughed. "You're in a very philosophical mood today."

"It happens after a spirit walk," Chakotay replied with a shrug.

Lillian's eyes widened in surprise.

"You practice the spirit walk?" she asked.

"You know this practice?" he asked back.

She shook her head. "Only from hearsay. But I'd like to learn more. Are you allowed to talk about it?"

"Not about things that happen during my own sessions, no," Chakotay answered. "But I can teach you how to find your own path to the spirit world if you're really interested."

"I'm not sure," Lillian said a bit reluctantly. "Is that even allowed? Or are you breaking some religious taboo?"

"The spirit world is open to everyone, regardless if they are of our tribe or not," Chakotay said. "I'd gladly share the experience with you… although once I've guided you over the threshold, you'll have to find your way alone."

"I'd like to give it a try," Lillian admitted. "I've always been interested in different spiritual teachings. I'm just… well, a little afraid, that's all. I've never done anything like this."

"There's nothing to fear in the spirit world," Chakotay said quietly. "But you don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Some of my brothers never even tried. My oldest sister, on the other hand, is the spiritual leader of our people. Each person is different, and all have to find their own path."

"How many siblings do you have again?" Lillian asked.

They'd briefly touched the topic before, but never went into detail. The loss of his family still weighed heavily on Chakotay's soul, and he found it hard to talk about them. Now, though, he felt the sudden urge to share his memories with Lillian.

"I'm the seventh of ten children and have seven brothers and two sisters," he said. Then a thought occurred to him. "When do you go off-duty? We could have dinner in my quarters and talk about family. I don't have many pictures, but a few have survived our adventures; I'd like to show them."

Lillian tilted her head to the side, her large, coffee-brown eyes laughing.

"Is that an invitation?" she asked teasingly.

Chakotay pretended to think, although it was really hard not to laugh.

"Sounded like one to me," he finally answered, flashing his dimples at her.

Lillian closed her eyes, pretending to be blinded by his killer smile, and bowed playfully. "Then I accept," she said. "I'll go off-duty at seventeen-hundred… or so I hope. Give me half an hour to hit the shower, and I can be over at your place around six o'clock. Would that suffice?"

"I have the day off, so time doesn't really matter," Chakotay replied. "I'll have a briefing with the captain in two hour's time, but after that, I'm all yours."

"Promises, promises," she teased, but her eyes were still laughing. "Now, go and visit Marcus before that starring match between his other visitors would escalate into something more… physical. I've got enough work here as it is."

* * *

Commander Susan Ivanova reached C&C some ten minutes _after_ the official beginning of her duty shift – not that it would have been _her_ fault. G'Kar had waylain her on her way to work, trying to persuade her of the necessity of assigning one of his Narn warriors to each telepath that got shipped out to the warships taking on patrol duty.

It was a fairly… exhausting conversation. G'Kar could talk a Pak'ma'ra into eating vegetables on a good day, and Ivanova's argument that the safety of the telepaths had been guaranteed didn't persuade him at all. He seemed to have come to the conclusion that only with Narn bodyguard would they be really safe, because the Narns would be willing to go into great danger and to sacrifice themselves if they had to, knowing that in turn they would serve their own people.

"If the symmetry were any more perfect, I should think one of us would break into tears," he'd ended his argument passionately.

By the end of the discussion Ivanova had in truth been close to break into tears – although for an entirely different reason. Those would have been tears of frustration, not those of a soul deeply touched. She hadn't been looking forward for today's duty shift to begin with, and the argument with G'Kar had just been the last straw that broke the camel's back.

She preferred to work in a tightly controlled environment, with a clear command structure. With people who already knew what she expected from them and what they could do without getting their heads bitten off. Yet today she'd have to endure one of _Voyager_'s engineering teams who were going to check the entire comm system for bugs and illegal access nodes and whatever other means Night Watch might have found to spy on them.

Ivanova hated having strangers in C&C, but even she had to admit that _Voyager_'s technicians were currently the only ones whom they could trust unconditionally. The only ones who certainly _weren't_ affiliated with EarthGov, the Shadows, the Centauri, the Minbari Warrior Caste, or any one of the dozen or so other forces that might want to gain access to Babylon 5 for their own shady purposes.

Plus they had the superior technology that might find things her own techs would never even think of. So, it was a necessary thing – even if she didn't like it. At all.

"We won't interfere with their job in any way," she told her crew in a tone that made clear that it was more than just a suggestion. "We'll do our work and they'll do theirs. Lieutenant Corwin, you'll be our liaison. Should they have any questions, you'll answer them. Other than that, it will be business as usual. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Commander," the crew of day shift chorused demurely, and Ivanova slumped into the command chair.

This was going to be a very long shift.

Twenty minutes later the door opened, and the collective jaws of day shift hit the floor with an almost audible _thud_. Including Ivanova's own.

She'd expected the volatile chief engineer of _Voyager_ to send a colourfully mixed team – after all, half the crew was made up of various alien races. She hadn't expected, however, a life-sized Barbie doll walking into C&C on such high heels that would make walking a deadly peril for everyone else, wearing a silver-coloured, form-hugging jumpsuit that left nothing to the imagination. _Absolutely_ nothing.

With the sophisticated cranial implant above one brow and the strange exoskeleton covering her right hand, she looked like one of those love-bots featuring really bad holovids, born from the adolescent fantasies from certain male screenwriters. Only that she managed to transmit the cold threat of breaking anyone's nose who'd be stupid enough to approach her without invitation.

She was accompanied by one of those pointy-eared Vulcan people – and a fairly young one at that, by the looks of him – and a squarely-built alien with blue skin and a bald head with a bifurcated ridge running down the centre of his face. Ivanova remembered that those aliens were called Bolians; she'd already met a female one when visiting _Voyager_, although how an outsider would tell the genders from each other was a puzzle.

The Barbie doll ignored the salivating males around her and swayed over to Ivanova, looking at her with wide, very blue, very doll-like eyes.

"Are you the one currently in command of this facility?" she asked, blithely ignoring any such social niceties as greetings. Her voice, too, was cold and detached.

Ivanova nodded. "I'm Commander Ivanova, second-in-command of the station, yes. And you would be…?"

"Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One," Barbie told her matter-of-factly. "You may call me Seven of Nine. We're here to check your communications system for possible external manipulations. Ensign Vorik and Crewman Chell will be assisting me."

"I've assigned Lieutenant Corwin to show you everything you might need to see," Ivanova replied waving closer the young man who'd recovered enough to close his mouth. "The others will continue with their work as always," she added in a warning tone that promised dire consequences, should that _not_ happen.

Several still gawking technicians hurriedly vanished behind their consoles.

Seven of Nine nodded in a completely unperturbed manner. Perhaps she was already used to the overly hormonal reactions to her presence. Or perhaps she didn't realize the effect at all. Interpersonal stuff didn't seem to be her forte.

"That would be sufficient," she said; then she turned to a suddenly beet red David Corwin. "Show me the way," she ordered.

* * *

Having finished dispatching the telepaths to their respective ships, Garibaldi returned to his office to check the files of all those security officers who'd joined Night Watch and had been sent away from Babylon 5. He congratulated himself for not having erased those files – at least this way they could have an educated guess whom they would have to look for.

"You really think they'd sent us back our own people? Well, our _former_ people," Officer Lou Welch corrected himself hurriedly. "Wouldn't it be easier to smuggle in people we don't know and so wouldn't spot in a crowd?"

Garibaldi shook his head. "They might blend in better, but they wouldn't know the station as well as someone who'd served here for years. Jack, Rishi and the others could have gotten everywhere as long as they kept a low profile.

"True enough," Lou Welch admitted sourly. "Do we know how many of our former _colleagues_," he emphasized the word to express his disgust more clearly, "might have returned to wreak havoc on the station?"

"Not yet," Garibaldi admitted with a frustrated sigh. "We know that Armstrong must be still around somewhere; and that civilian who used to be Ivanova's friend but turned out to be a Home Guard representative."

"Malcolm Biggs?" Lou Welch had been already aboard during Sinclair's command and had the useful ability to remember every criminal they'd investigated in the last three years.

Garibaldi nodded. "Yeah, that one. Mr. Ayala says he was the one actually in charge of their base in Grey 17."

"You think those four dead in DownBelow, with their throats cut, also belonged to them?" Lou Welch asked. "It's unusual for terrorists to get involved in simple murder or other petty crimes."

"Oh, I don't think that was a simple murder case," Garibaldi said grimly. "Have you looked at their injuries closely?"

Lou Welch shook his head. People found with cut throats and without identicards in DownBelow weren't such a rare thing that he'd have paid the case special attention. Sad as it was, such things happened in semi-regular intervals there.

"Well, I have," Garibaldi said. They were… interesting, to put it mildly."

Lou Welch frowned. He couldn't find anything interesting on the corpses when he took a fleeting look at them. "In what way?"

"They had broken bones and heavy bruises," Garibaldi explained. "Also, the placing of the injuries was such that they'd cause great damage, to take the guys out quickly. The only weapon that can cause such injuries, given their form and position, is a Minbari fighting pike. I've seen enough such injuries during the war… and Marcus' bruises do look very similar."

"So, before he'd beat Cole to bloody pulp, Neroon had gone through DownBelow and started a random killing spree?" Lou Welch asked doubtfully.

"I don't think it was Neroon," Garibaldi said grimly. "He wouldn't have gone through DownBelow without his guards in attendance – this happened well before the fight with Marcus, so he wouldn't be on a secret mission, and his rank demands that he always have guards with him. Besides, he's something of a legend among his own people. He could have killed the whole pack without cutting their throats. The pike would have been enough for _him_ – but not for a younger, less experienced warrior."

"But why would your hypothetical Minbari use a knife?" Lou Welch asked, clearly confused. "I've never heard that they'd fight with knives like the Centauri."

"They don't," Garibaldi said. "That was what confused me, too, when we found the corpses. The cuts were ragged; nothing like what a knife would make. So I went to Marcus and asked him. He's a pain in the ass, but he knows more about Minbari customs than any of us."

"And what did he say?"

"He said that Minbari only use knives for ceremonial purposes; doing otherwise would be dishonourable, and we all know that honour means everything to the boneheads."

"But those thugs _had_ their throats cut," Lou Welch pointed out the obvious. "Does that mean our killer _wasn't_ a Minbari, after all?"

"Oh, it was a Minbari all right," Garibaldi said with a grim smile. "He just didn't need a knife to cut those people's throats. He used his damned _bonecrest_."

It took Officer Welch a few moments before he could speak again.

"His _bonecrest_?" he all but squealed. "But isn't that thing… erm… _sensitive_ or what?"

"No more than your teeth or nails are," Garibaldi grinned. "Lou, you didn't fall for that idiot legend about the 'horny bone' did you? It's what its name says: a bone, with the purpose to protect their skulls – and, as we've seen, to use it as a weapon if necessary." He sobered again. "That's why they're so hard to kill in hand-to-hand combat, you know. It requires a very hard blow to shatter that bone."

"But why would Night Watch want to kill a random Minbari?" Lou Welch asked. "What could they hope from that?"

"I doubt that our killer was chosen randomly," Garibaldi answered. "To kill four men with just a pike and his bonecrest, he had to be a warrior, and a well-trained one. I think he was chosen to nurture the mistrust and hatred of the Warrior Caste towards humans. To undermine the alliance between Babylon 5 and Minbar – perhaps even to help deepening the rift between the Warrior and the Religious Caste."

"And all that would be done by killing _one_ warrior?" Lou Welch shook his head. "Sorry, chief, but it's just not bloody likely… as Marcus would say."

"It depends who that warrior is," Garibaldi said.

"But we've just ruled out Neroon…" Lou Welch trailed off, understanding finally beginning to dawn in his eyes. "Oh. I see now. Rastenn."

"He's been seen on Babylon 5, at least a week before Delenn's inauguration," Garibaldi said, "strangely enough, in the company of Vir, of all people. Then he suddenly disappeared, right after that bar fight with the _Voyager_ crew involved. Why?"

"Either because he got into the spotlight, which he wasn't supposed to do, or because he ran into the thugs and killed them in self-defence," Lou Welch now had the full picture.

Garibaldi nodded. "Plus, since Lennier had known him for a few years, he had to be worried about his cover getting blown in any minute."

"So, what are we gonna do with him?" Lou Welch asked.

"Nothing," Garibaldi replied with a shrug. "Oh, I'm sure we could learn the details if we set Vir under a little pressure – _someone_ had to help Rastenn clean up and get off the station unseen – but what good would it do to us? If those guys _were_ Home Guard or Night Watch, which I'm sure they were, Rastenn did us a favour. Besides, as you said, it was self-defence."

"Are you sure about _that_?" Lou Welch clearly wasn't.

Garibaldi nodded. "A Minbari warrior never attacks without provocation, or so Marcus tells me. We're used to see them as blood-thirsty monsters, because of the war, but I bet Marcus knows them better. He's lived among them. Besides, why would a lone Minbari attack four armed men, even if they were just the usual scum of Down Below? It just doesn't make sense."

"So they've picked Rastenn because he's Neroon's nephew?"

"Not just his nephew, according to Lennier, but also his heir. Neroon's family is an old and well-respected one, apparently. And Neroon is famous for his hatred towards us. Killing his nephew might have sent him on the warpath again; at the very least, Minbar would have stopped supporting Babylon 5, which would be fatal for us."

"And in the worst case scenario?"

"The Warrior Caste would have sent those ugly warships of theirs to shoot us to atoms," Garibaldi said grimly. "That was how the war had begun all those years ago: with the death of a single important person. And it's in the nature of the boneheads that had they once started on a path, it's almost impossible to stop them. Even if it would cause their own deaths."

Lou Welch shuddered involuntarily. "That was a close call."

"Too close," Garibaldi agreed. "We're lucky that Rastenn had been trained so well – and that Neroon obviously didn't want to explain us what his nephew was doing here, disguised as a simple cook."

"Intel gathering?" Lou Welch guessed.

Garibaldi snorted. "What else? At least now he's doing it openly. And while we let him believe he's managed to fool us, we can keep a discreet eye on his activities."

Lou Welch looked at his boss with unveiled admiration.

"You're a sneaky bastard, Chief," he stated.

"That's my job and my personal talent," Garibaldi replied agreeably. Then he pulled a face as his comm link beeped. He activated the thing. "Garibaldi. Go," he barked.

"This is Morishi, Chief," came the answer. "You should come to Brown Sector, to the control room of the fusion reactors. There's something I'd like to show you.

"On my way," Garibaldi replied and deactivated the comm link. Then he exchanged grim looks with his aide.

Morishi was their bomb squad investigator. If he wanted to show him something, that could only have meant one thing.

He had found a bomb. Again.

After a moment of hapless rage, Garibaldi shook himself and made a mental checklist of all the things that needed to be done.

"I'm gonna take a look," he said. "Find Zack, Lou, and prepare everything for a possible evacuation of all the alien dignitaries, but don't do anything until I've seen what we are dealing with this time."

~TBC~


	2. Chapter 2

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

For the explanation of certain Minbari terms and phrases see the end of this chapter.

**

* * *

**

PART 02

Time seemed to stand still for Michael Garibaldi until the core shuttle finally reached the end of Brown Sector, where he could access the fusion reactors. Not directly, of course, but that was the closest thing, unless he wanted to put on an EVA suit and take a look from the outside. Which he most empathically _didn't_. Zero-G environments always made him sick. The only place where he could bear the lack of gravity was the cockpit of a _Starfury_.

Morishi, a short, wiry man in his late thirties, whole harmless appearance belied his true strength, was waiting for him in the small fusion control cubicle. His hawkish features showed definite concern, and that made Garibaldi nervous. Morishi wasn't one who'd panic easily.

"So, what do we have?" Garibaldi asked.

Morishi moved to the side to let him take a look at the control screen of the external sensors.

"It seems to be a bomb all right," he said, and a cleverly hidden one, at that. We're lucky that _Voyager_'s technicians were checking out the C&C comm system and picked out the low-level electronic emissions, or we'd only realized what was going on when the fusion reactor went off like a supernova."

Garibaldi tried to make out details of the explosive device, but with little success. The picture was too dark and even blurred a bit on the edges. Still…

"It seems familiar somehow," he said.

Morishi nodded. "Yeah, looks very similar to the one that whatshisname, that crazy character used a few months ago."

"Robert Carlson?" Garibaldi suggested.

Morishi nodded again. "Yeah, that one. We'll have to try tracing the explosive's molecular code to identify the manufacturer and the buyer, but with most our contacts to Earth gone, it won't be easy."

"Could the Home Guard or Night Watch be involved this time? Zack Allen, who'd just arrived to the crime scene, asked.

Morishi shrugged. "It sure as hell wasn't the same crazy guy. This time, there might be political motivations, yeah."

"Well," Garibaldi said. "You're our demolition expert. Do you think you can disarm this bomb?"

"I can't tell it from here," Morishi replied. "I'll scramble a zero-G team and check out the fusion reactor. It helped last time; perhaps it will work again."

"As long as you don't want _me_ to get into one of those claustrophobic suits, it's fine with me," Garibaldi said. Then he activated his comm link, which – like all those of the senior staff – had been synchronized with _Voyager_'s comm system. "Garibaldi to Ayala."

"Ayala here," came the answer promptly.

Garibaldi chose his words very carefully. In theory, this channel was supposed to be secure, but after the recent events, they couldn't be sure about anything anymore.

"Greg, we're having a… _situation_ here," he said, "and could use some help. You told me about that guy of yours who used to work for spaceport security…"

"You mean Dalby?" Ayala clarified.

"I can't remember the name," Garibaldi admitted. "But whoever it was, we could use his… _expertise_. Preferably an hour ago."

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the connection.

"I see," Ayala finally said, the deepening of his voice revealing that he'd already figured out what the problem was. "Yep, Ken is the guy you need. I'll check it with the Captain and send him _directly_ to you… not necessarily in that order. Ayala out."

Garibaldi released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. _Directly_ meant that Ayala would "beam" his bomb expert over, or whatever they called the use of their amazing particle transporter device. They might actually deal with this bomb in time.

Moments later. The sizzling golden column of a transporter beam flickered up in the small chamber, releasing a human male with a hard-bitten face, clad in a black-and-gold uniform.

"I'm Ken Dalby," he said. "Greg meant you needed help?"

* * *

In the surprisingly opulent quarters of Londo Mollari – opulent in Babylon 5 terms, that is; the ambassador himself was usually referring to them as "that fetid hole where I have the indignity to live – Vir Cotto was preparing dinner for his boss and himself. It was a rather… _colourful_ affair, as if someone hade captured the rainbow and broken it to food-sized pieces. Practically every colour of the spectrum was represented in the form of foodstuffs – with the exception of red.

Red foodstuffs, while generally present in the Centauri cuisine, were considered unworthy the table of a man of importance – assumedly because it reminded people with delicate stomachs of the barbaric times when their ancestors hadn't tamed the fire yet and were forced to eat their butchered prey raw… including their enemies. How many of those outrageous legends were actually true, no one could tell in these days. Nonetheless, Centauri servants were cautions _not_ to serve any red foodstuffs – _or_ raw meat – to their masters. Such mishaps could result in the loss of a hand… if they were _very_ fortunate.

Vir wasn't a servant, of course, but since Londo couldn't afford servants on Babylon 5 (mostly because he didn't have the nerve to watch all the time whether they were trying to poison him or not), such small tasks usually fell to him. He didn't really mind, most of the time. He genuinely liked Londo (most of the time), he liked his life on Babylon 5, and was grateful to Londo for keeping him here, far from the murderous intrigues of the court. He had more freedom here than he'd ever dreamed of; and here he even had friends.

Lennier for example. Or Rastenn, however, unlikely it seemed. Or that friendly blonde lady from _Voyager_, with the little girl. And having friends meant that he might be do certain things on Londo's behalf.

The lady officer – Sam, he corrected himself, as they'd reached first name basis early on – had kept her word. She'd got permission to invite Vir to a visit aboard _Voyager_, and she'd talked Commander Chakotay, the executive officer of the ship, into having an interview with Vir during that visit. Vir hoped fervently that he'd be able to make the First Officer understand how important it would be for Londo to be invited to _Voyager_; how important it would be for Londo to be invited to _Voyager_; how important it was that Londo kept his position at court, however insecure that position might be.

Perhaps he would succeed. Commander Chakotay seemed a reasonable man; one with considerable influence. Perhaps _he_ could persuade Captain Janeway to meet Londo. That would strengthen Londo's position at court – and take the wind off at least _one_ of Lord Refa's sails.

He arranged the coloured crystal plates, bowls and calices on the table according to protocol. He'd cooked Londo's favourite dishes, in the hope that good food would lift the ambassador's mood. Although, considering their current lack of success to get an audience with Captain Janeway and the upcoming visit of Minister Virini, Vir seriously doubled that all the delicacies of the universe could do _that_.

There was a buzz at the door, which perplexed him a little. Had Londo forgotten his own code, or was he being deliberately bothersome? Well, there was only one way to find out…

"Open," he ordered, and the computer obediently opened the door.

But it wasn't Londo who stood on the doorstep. It was a young Minbari, in full warrior regalia.

"Greetings, Vir," Rastenn of the Star Riders said calmly. "Do you have a moment? We need to talk."

* * *

Outside the station, a crew of four in EVA suits had just opened the 12x24-foot hatch in the side of a long, narrow tail section that housed the fusion reactor. Garibaldi was grateful for the security cameras they had installed after the most recent bombing, back in September, as they enabled him to watch the progress of the zero-G team from the relative safety of the control cubicle.

"Be careful," he warned them. "This part of the hull isn't pressurized and does not rotate. One wrong move, and you'll find yourselves floating in space."

Morishi's men didn't need the warning, of course, but _Voyager_'s Crewman Dalby wasn't familiar with the station, and Garibaldi didn't want any accidents. Especially ones that would involve guests from an alternate universe.

"Take it easy, Chief," the grin was audible in Morishi's voice. "We know what we're doing."

"I hope so," Garibaldi replied, "because I'm so not interested in a small-scale reproduction of the Big Bang."

The technicians floated inside the tail section, using their suit thrusters. They had so much practice in that sort of stuff that they didn't even bump against the hull. Once inside, they fanned out with scanning devices to search for the bomb. The security cameras had been placed in a rather weird angle, to oversee as much of the section as possible, so that the transmission wasn't much help.

Dalby's small, handheld device – he called it a _tricorder_ – beeped first, and he honed on to its signal.

"I've found the bomb," he repeated calmly. "It's fastened to the reactor housing, and it's big enough to blow straight to i8ts core."

Morishi floated up to him to take a look. "It's exactly the same place where Carlson's bomb was," he said. "Someone's playing a macabre game with us; someone who knows exactly where _that_ bomb used to be."

"Perhaps," Garibaldi said. "Or perhaps they just want to make us believe that it's Carlson on the loose again, should we manage to find the bomb in the first place."

"It must have been one of those who left us to join Night Watch," Morishi speculated. "We never made it public where the bomb actually had been."

"Possibly," Garibaldi said. "If we're lucky, he might even have left behind his DNA for us. But let's deal with first things first. Can you remove it from the reactor housing?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid," Morishi replied. "It may _look_ like Carlson's handiwork, but in fact, it's a lot more sophisticated. What if it's outfitted with a motion trigger?"

"How likely is that?" Garibaldi asked.

"Very likely, in fact," the voice of Dalby answered. "It doesn't have a timer – at least none that I could recognize, and I've seen my fair share of those things – so it must be detonated via remote control. The bomber wouldn't risk letting it be removed."

"So, what are we doing, then?" Garibaldi asked.

"I'll try to interrupt the electronic emissions of the bomb," Dalby replied. "That might take some time, so I'd suggest that the others return to you… just in case I failed."

"_If_ you fail, it won't really matter where we are," Morishi pointed out logically. "Just try to get done with it before the bomber pushes the button, and we'll all be fine. How are you gonna do it anyway? We don't even know the right frequency."

"I'll send a record of the emissions to _Voyager_," Dalby explained. "Engineering can analyze them and suggest the best method to interrupt them. That would be the fastest and most secure way – unless you want Seven of Nine assimilate the bomb, that is."

The joke was completely lost on Garibaldi and the rest of the Babylon 5 crew, of course. Dalby shook his head, murmured something like "never mind" under his breath and started with the recording.

* * *

"To talk about _what_?" Vir demanded nervously. "Can't it wait? Ambassador Mollari can return for his dinner any time now, and he will be most displeased – and very _vocal_ about it – if he doesn't find everything in readiness. Can we talk later, perhaps?"

"It depends," Rastenn answered calmly.

"Depends on what?" Vir had reached the phase of nervous hand-wringing by then.

"Whether you can give me any information about a certain Mr. Morden," Rastenn said. "I have just had the most… _interesting_ conversation with him; and it is my understanding that Ambassador Mollari has been associated with him – perhaps still is."

Vir deflated within a second and practically collapsed onto one of Londo's overstuffed chairs. Morden on Babylon 5 again! That never meant any good. And so shortly before the arrival of Minister Virini and Lord Refa…. No, that wasn't good, not good at all!

"What did he want from you?" he asked tonelessly.

Rastenn raised a hairless eyebrow. "Now _that_ is an interesting question, my friend. In fact, the very same question that _he_ asked me: _What do you want?_"

"Oh, Great Maker!" Vir was nauseous with anxiety already. "And what did you answer?"

Rastenn shrugged. "I told him it was none of his business. That a Minbari warrior is well capable of getting what he or she wants on their own. That the only thing he can do for me is to get out of my way and leave me alone."

"Oh, good, good!" Vir nearly passed out from relief. "Listen to me, Rastenn, that is a question you should never, _never_ answer when it's being asked by Mr. Morden… or any of his associates."

That hairless eyebrow was lifted again. "Why not?"

"Because you'll get what you want," Vir replied, deadly serous now, "and the price would be a horrible one. Look what happened to the Narn… and that genocide, too, had begun with that simple question."

"I fear I don't understand you," Rastenn admitted.

"And I can't tell you more, not now, perhaps not even later," Vir replied. "Ask Lennier about the creatures your people call the _Sher'shok Dum_ – the Shadows. Ask him about the fate of Babylon 4, and where Valen truly came from. And for Minbar's sake, try to persuade that brick-headed uncle of yours _not_ to cross Delenn right now, because that could have terrible consequences. Not for Minbar alone – for us all."

"I don't understand…" Rastenn began.

"And I can't tell you more," Vir interrupted. "Perhaps even this is too much. But you warned me before Delenn's inauguration, so it's only fair that I'd warn you, too. Please, leave now. The Ambassador must not find you here. Talk to Lennier. Talk to your priests – and then make your own conclusions. You _will_ understand."

* * *

The sleek little ship – black against the eternal blackness of space – followed the luxurious Centauri shuttle transporting Minister Virini, Lord Refa and the rest of the Centauri delegation from their ship to Babylon 5 into the docking bay. The station's sensors couldn't discover it, with its cloaking device activated. Even if they had been able to pick up any readings from it, they couldn't have identified it. The C&C crew would write the readings off as anomalous echoes.

Once within, the little ship touched down in the darkened corner of the docking bay, released a lone passenger, and then lifted off again. Staying in floating mode right below the bay's ceiling. No one would be able to discover it by running into it by accident.

The passenger – a bald-headed human male, wearing a long black cloak and holding a strange-looking staff in his hand – remained in the shadows until the Centauri cleared the docking bay. Then he upheld his free hand, and a translucent globe, seemingly made of pure red light, appeared in it – or, to be more accurate, floating just half an inch above his palm.

"Hello Lennier," he said to the tiny image of Delenn's aide appearing within the globe. "I just wanted you to know that I'm here… and watching, in case you should need help."

"I must respectfully admit that I do not know who you are, sir," Lennier replied in confusion.

"Have you forgotten me so soon?" the man asked in a tone of genuine sorrow. "Sad… but that's the way of the world, I suppose, so it doesn't matter. You'll need me, so I've come."

"But I have not called you," Lennier said, even more confused.

"Not yet," the man said cryptically, "but you will. Expect me when you see me."

He closed his hand around the globe of light and it vanished.

"Well," he said to himself. "So far, I have followed my teacher. I thought I had an obligation. But now my mentor is gone, and I see no reason to remain uninvolved any longer."

With that, he whirled around and merged with the shadows.

In his modest quarters in the Green Sector, Lennier of the Third Fane of Chu'domo knelt on the floor, wondering what it could mean for a Minbari to hear disembodied voices… and if he was about to lose his mind.

* * *

Most of the time, Lieutenant Joe Carey was a fairly competent engineer; confident enough to deal with things on his own. After all, he'd been considered for the position of the chief engineer at the beginning of their odyssey.

But when Dalby called in, telling him that he needed a thorough analysis on the electronic emissions of a bomb that could turn the whole station into a miniature sun at any given moment, Joe didn't feel up to the challenge. So he called Torres to Engineering. Disarming bombs – or placing them to be completely honest – was something the ex-Maquis were more familiar with than simple, run-of-the-mill Starfleet officers.

"Okay, don't panic, folks," Torres said. "We can do this; it won't be the first time. Hogan, start the analysis and look for parallels in the technical database. Where's Harry? We'll need him at the transporter."

"He went to the MedLabs, to visit his Ranger friend," Sue Nicoletti told her.

Torres said something in Klingonese that sounded positively menacing. Then she hit her comm badge.

"Torres to transporter room. Locate Ensign Kim and beam him directly to Engineering. Preferably yesterday."

"But the captain told us _not_ to use the transporters, unless it's an emergency," Lieutenant Rollins, currently on transporter duty, protested.

"I don't know what _you_ consider an emergency, Rollins, but in _my_ book, the possible explosion of a fusion reactor _would_ count as one," Torres retorted snidely. "Now, could you just stop whining and beam me Harry over? Time's something of an issue here, you know."

Rollins wisely shut up, and moments later, a shimmering transporter beam released a slightly confused Harry Kim in Engineering. Torres debriefed him in short, clipped sentences, mindful of the fact that some ruthless terrorist could push the deadman's switch at any moment.

"Can we risk to simply beaming the bomb out of there?" she asked then.

Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't do it; not while we know nothing either of its components or of its construction. The transporter beam running interference with its emissions could trigger the explosion prematurely. There are simply too many unknown factors."

"Just what I've feared," Torres sighed. "All right, let's do it the old-fashioned way. Hogan, how far have you gotten with your analysis?"

"Almost there," Hogan, a young, gentle-faced human engineer with haunted eyes, was working frantically on his console… then he stopped and stared at the screen I surprise. "That's odd…" he said.

"What's odd?" Torres asked impatiently.

"Remember that Cardassian outpost Sveta's cell wanted to blow up, just before we got hurled into the Delta Quadrant?" Hogan asked back.

"The one where the bomb didn't go off because of some interference of a nearby ore processing facility?" Torres clarified.

Hogan nodded. "This bomb seems to have very similar emissions. So, if we can recreate those of a Cardassian ore processing plant…"

"… we might prevent an explosion and remove the bomb safely," Torres finished for him. "All right; look into it. This could actually work. Harry, do we have any detailed information about non-military Cardassian technology in our databases?"

"Is there such thing as non-military Cardassian technology?" Harry asked, voice dripping with sarcasm, but was working on the problem already. "Ask Dalby to send me more info about the bomb. It might be similar to the one you were talking about, but it's most likely not exactly the same. We can't afford any mistakes in this."

* * *

Captain Kathryn Janeway had spent the entire morning in her ready room, leaving the bridge of _Voyager_ in the capable hands of his Vulcan security officer, Lieutenant Tuvok. Studying the history of this alternate Earth fascinated her to no end… and frightened her at the same time.

"Whatever happens to us, we must _not_ get involved in the internal struggle of the Earth Alliance," he said to Chakotay, who had just returned from the MedLabs of the station.

Chakotay nodded. "I agree. The current situation is volatile enough as it is. Have you managed to get a clearer picture about the balance of power between human-inhabited worlds?"

"Interestingly enough, there seem to have been tensions between Earth and the Mars Colony in this universe, too," Janeway said. "A perhaps meaningful parallel between our realities."

"Perhaps not so surprising," Chakotay interjected. "Perhaps it was the natural consequence of the early colonization period in both universes. Like England and North-America all over again… just in space. It's understandable that new colonies, as soon as they become self-supporting, begin to resent the colonial powers. It's only human – and we both are humans, them and us."

"Perhaps," Janeway allowed. "In any case, the First Mars Colony of _this_ universe was founded shortly before 2100, but was soon destroyed by a sneak attack."

"Destroyed by whom?" Chakotay asked.

"That's been an unanswered question ever since, although the best guess would be some isolationalist group of Earth-bound terrorists," Janeway replied. "The Second Mars Colony was founded fifty years later, and that's the one still in existence."

"Have they terraformed the planet as well?" Chakotay asked.

Janeway shook her head. "Apparently not. They don't seem to have the proper technology for terraforming. They live under large biodomes on Mars. They tried to become independent early on; for example, Mars was untouched in the Earth-Minbari war. However, getting self-supporting must have proved more problematic than they had thought, as just after the war, they experienced some tumultuous food riots."

"I heard Mr. Garibaldi mentioning something about that," Chakotay nodded. "He also spoke of various resistance groups with the strong intention to separate Mars from the Earth Alliance."

"As far as I can tell, there have been two major groups fighting for independence in the recent decades," Janeway said. "One is the terrorist group called Free Mars, the other the Mars Resistance: an organization with a broader base and more… temperate methods."

"It sounds as if civil war would be a very real danger within the Earth Alliance," Chakotay commented grimly.

"Actually, it has already started," Janeway said. "A major revolt occurred just two years ago, in October 2258 as they count time. After that, a provisional government was appointed by Earth. This government was still in charge when President Morgan Clark declared martial law for the entire Earth Alliance."

"When did _that_ happen?" Chakotay asked.

"Less than six months ago, on the eight of April this year." Janeway replied.

"I assume the colonies didn't take it well," Chakotay said.

Janeway shook her head. "No, they didn't. Provisional Governor Xavier Montoya refused to enforce Clark's decree. As a retaliation, five days later Clark ordered EarthForce to bombard the Mars Colony."

"_What_?" Chakotay cried out, not wanting to believe it.

Janeway nodded grimly. "I've seen the news feed with my very eyes. Three moths later, Earth Alliance troops landed on Mars, and the main cities, New Vegas and Slimtown, were besieged."

"Unbelievable!" Chakotay shook his head. "And I thought _we_ had it bad, being abandoned by our homeworlds and all that. How did the other Earth colonies react to that?"

"Proxima III and Orion VII declared their independence from the Earth Alliance upon the bombarding of the Mars Colony," Janeway replied. "Captain Sheridan followed suit and declared Babylon 5 independent as well."

"That was courageous of him," Chakotay said. "A dedicated step in the right direction."

"Was it?" Janeway asked dryly. "He's promoted himself from a military commander to a military dictator, including creating his own uniforms and his own laws. Tell me, Chakotay – what is the difference between him and Morgan Clark? Aside from the fact that President Clark was actually _elected_, that is?"

"You can't be serious!" Chakotay exclaimed.

"Oh, but I am," Janeway replied. "I understand that you sympathize with their case – and I won't deny that President Clark's politics can't be condoned – but it seems to me that on his own way Captain Sheridan is no less of a tyrant than President Clark."

"Wasn't it you who once said that one can't run a starship like a democracy?" Chakotay asked mildly. "That there has to be a clear command structure and proper discipline, if we want a chance to survive?"

"I _did_ say that," Janeway agreed. "But I run a single starship with a small crew and a simple purpose: to get us all home, eventually. "I'm not responsible for a city in space, with a quarter million inhabitants, a great many of whom aren't even humans. And I at least consult my officers before making any decisions that would have a profound effect on the lives of us all – which doesn't seem to be a practice of Captain Sheridan, if what we've heard so far is any indication."

"But when everything is said, it's still your decision to make," Chakotay pointed out," regardless if we, others agree or not. Like when you chose to keep Seven on board."

"It proved to be the right decision, didn't it?" Janeway asked.

"So did Sheridan's so far," Chakotay retorted promptly.

Janeway shook her head. "I'm not that sure about that, Chakotay. And that's why we must _not_ get involved in the internal affairs of the Earth Alliance… or those of an entire alternate universe. This is not our fight."

"But we're already involved," Chakotay said. "We've gotten involved in the moment when Ayala got trapped with Mr. Garibaldi in Grey 17. We've gotten even more involved when Tuvok chose to go in with a security team to help them. Or when we agreed to keep those captured Night Watch people in our brig. We're already in knee-deep, and we can't undo it again."

"True," Janeway said. "But we must make a clear distinction between the events concerning station security – and nothing else – and an open confrontation with EarthGov. Any direct action from our side could seriously endanger the balance of power and lead to a bloody civil war."

"But what if the two are the same?" Chakotay asked. "And what about those Shadow creatures? Whatever you might think of Captain Sheridan personally, there seems to be general consensus about them being evil malevolent and genocidal. How are we supposed to deal with them?"

"Not at all," Janeway replied. "We're supposed to avoid them if we can, because we don't belong to this universe and therefore can't take sides in this conflict."

"And if we can't avoid them?" Chakotay asked. "What if we can't return to our universe? What if we're trapped in this nightmare and can never get out? Wouldn't that make us part of _this_ universe? Wouldn't it be our duty to help defend mankind against these Shadows?"

For a long while, Janeway didn't answer, just sat there, rubbing her temples against a building headache.

"Perhaps that is what will happen eventually," she finally said, her voice tired and raw with sorrow. "But I'm not giving up hope just yet. I still count on that alien machine on the planet below us. Perhaps if its keeper recovers his strength, we might be able to contact him. Perhaps he'll be able to open us a way back to where we truly belong."

"I wish with all my heart that to come true," Chakotay said with quiet compassion. "But until that does happen – if it ever will – we'll have to take our chances with these people here. I agree that we can't – mustn't, in fact – take any active role in the human civil war; but it's our duty to take our share in defending the station against those Shadows. A quarter million lives are at stake just here – and who knows how many more elsewhere?"

Janeway couldn't find the right answer to that. She knew that Chakotay was right in much of what he'd said; but as likeable as she'd found Captain Sheridan when they'd been invited to dinner to Delenn's quarters, she could not condone the way he'd made himself the judge and the law on Babylon 5 – perchance even the executioner?

Before she could have thought of something to say, her comm badge beeped.

"Tuvok to Janeway."

She touched the badge. "Go on, Mr. Tuvok."

"Captain," the Vulcan said with his usual impeccable calm, "Lieutenant Torres has just informed me about some unforeseen events happening on Babylon 5. I believe you and Commander Chakotay should go down to Engineering and take a look."

The captain and her executive officer exchanged identical blank looks. Then Chakotay shrugged.

"We won't figure out anything by standing here," he said. "Let's go to Engineering."

* * *

Leaving Ambassador Mollari's quarters, Rastenn went to one of the several contact points in the Brown Sector to meet his uncle's informant. This time, his contact was Nidell, a young female of the Star Riders clan; a warrior herself, just a few cycles older than him. She was also a delicate beauty with an exquisitely formed bonecrest, with eyes as dark as the depths of space – and with absolutely deadly hands. Trained in the ancient self-defence art of _Tha'Domo_, she could break the neck of a man twice her size with only moderate effort – a skill that had already saved her life a few times since having taken up residence on Babylon 5.

"I've learned disturbing things today," Rastenn told her. "I need you to have someone carefully watched around the clock: a human male by the name of Morden. He approached me in an empty corridor and asked me a strange question."

"What question?" Nidell asked.

"He asked me what I want," Rastenn answered.

"That's a harmless enough question," Nidell said with a shrug.

Rastenn shook his head. "Not according to Vir Cotto, and right now, he seems to be _the_ authority in the matter. He told me, that was the very question this Morden had trapped Ambassador Mollari with. The thing what started the recent Narn-Centauri war."

"That sounds rather unlikely," Nidell judged.

"Not if this Morden person is an agent of the _Sher'shok Dum_," Rastenn said grimly.

Nidell gasped in shock. "Did Vir Cotto say that?"

"Not directly, no," Rastenn answered. "But he did tell me that I should never answer that particular question; and that this Morden is very dangerous. Then he told me to talk to Lennier."

"Delenn's aide, the priest?" Nidell asked in surprise.

Rastenn nodded. "I think Delenn knows more than she's told our leaders when she warned them about the return of the Ancient enemy. I think she even knows more than she's willing to tell Starkiller. And what _she_ knows, Lennier probably knows as well."

"Perhaps," Nidell allowed. "But will he tell you anything? If he's as loyal to Delenn as I think he is, and if Delenn isn't even willing to tell Starkiller everything, why would Lennier be willing to tell _you_?"

"Because I am the heir of Alyt Neroon," Rastenn answered simply. "If he can persuade _me_ about the return of the _Sher'shok dum_, I would have the right to ask for the ships and warriors of my Clan and my Caste to fight them."

"Would you?" Nidell asked. "Would you step forth and demand that our Cast forget its grievances and fight in a war on the side of Starkiller? And even if you do – would Alyt Neroon listen? Would the heads of the other Warrior Clans listen?"

"I hope so," Rastenn said grimly. "Because if Vir is right, if Delenn and Lennier are right, then our only chance to survive would be to unite our strength and follow the one who has the vision to lead us through fire… as our ancestors have followed Valen a thousand years ago."

"That is true," Nidell admitted. "But what if they are wrong?"

"I don't know," Rastenn sighed. "I would call it madness myself, had I not met this human… this Morden myself. There was an air about him that made me shiver with fear. And I've seen the same fear mirrored in Vir's eyes. But I need to learn more before I make my move."

"Learning more is always good," Nidell agreed. "We shall observe the human as you have ordered. What else do you want us to do?"

Rastenn thought for a moment.

"Send my uncle a detailed report," he said. "Ask him for a digital copy of _Valen's Book_, so that we may look up what there is to know about the _Sher'shok Dum_… just in case Delenn and her allies are right. And tell him he might want to return to Babylon 5, soon. I am too young and too inexperienced to deal with a case of this magnitude."

Nidell bowed in what was almost Religious fashion.

"It shall be done as ordered," she said. Whether she agreed with his conclusions or not was irrelevant. He was the heir to the leader of the Star Riders; his word was law, and she would obey, unless Alyt Neroon himself would tell her otherwise. As the priests said, understanding was not required – just obedience.

She left as unobtrusively as she'd come. After a moment, Rastenn followed suit to hunt down Lennier. There were still many questions he wanted to ask.

In the empty room, a bald-headed man with a long, black cloak and a staff in his hand emerged from the shadows and stared after them for quite a while.

"And so it begins," he intoned softly.

~TBC~

**

* * *

**

Terms and expressions in Minbari:

(…for the slightly more geeky among us. Most of them are from jumpnow's Minbari dictionary, one or two from BainAduial's story, "A Minbari Courtship".)

_Alyt_ = roughly "Captain", but specific to a member of the Warrior Caste who commands a Sharlin-class battle cruiser.

_Anla'shok_ = "The one who watches the enemy", a quasi-military organization that primarily operates behind the scenes as spies, messengers, and rescue personnel. Charged by Valen with watching for the return of the Shadows. Although a common misconception exists that the Anla'shok are associated with the Religious Caste, they are in fact completely separate from all three Castes, both by tradition and by law.

_Id'Minbari_ – Minbari Soul. Used to indicate humans who are believed to carry reborn Minbari souls.

_Sher'shok Dum_ – "Ancient Enemy", the Minbari term for the Shadows.

_Tha'Domo _– a fighting order of the Religious Caste, known to accompany the Warrior Caste into battle in the ancient past. Now primarily a monastic order. The fact that Nidell is trained in this particular fighting style indicates Religious background. As Minbari are generally allowed to follow the calling of their heart when they choose the Caste they want to belong to, it is, at least theoretically, possible for the child of a Religious couple to become a warrior… or vice versa.


	3. Chapter 3

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

An explanation of Centauri terms will follow at the end of this chapter.

**

* * *

**

PART 03

Londo Mollari, ambassador of the great Centauri Republic on Babylon 5, returned to his quarters in an exceptionally foul mood. Not that _that_ would have been something new. He'd been in such a dark mood ever since the death of Adira Tyree, the last, late-blooming love of his life. Little else could faze him any more in these days. Not even the fact that his star was sinking dangerously at court. Again.

Which didn't mean he'd give up easily. No Mollari had ever retreated from a battle of wills and wits – or from any other battle, in fact – and Londo did not intend to be the first. He had nurtured his grievances for a very long time, and was determined to execute his vengeance not only for Adira's death but also for those of Prime Minister Malachi – a dear old friend of his – and, even more importantly, for Urza Jaddo.

Oh, Urza! Dear old _Scowltura_, his best, closest friend, his sworn brother in the _Koral Pridho_! The fact that Urza hadn't seen any other way to save his family than to die voluntarily in the _Murago_, by _Londo_'s hands, of all people, was the last straw for the ambassador.

The ones responsible for these atrocities would pay. By the Great Maker, they would pay dearly! No matter what the vengeance would cost Londo personally, he would make them pay.

Humans had a strangely matching concept about someone selling his soul to the Devil to achieve an important goal. Londo wasn't sure the human concept of a soul matched that of the Centauri, but one thing was sure: the… _associates_ of Mr. Morden were as close to the Devil as one could imagine, if he'd understood rightly what humans meant under that name. This time, however, Londo had found a way to reach his goal without _them_ getting involved, and that knowledge made the foretaste of vengeance the sweeter.

He strode into his quarters with the determined look of the future Emperor he'd been foretold to become one day and saw with satisfaction that dinner had been prepared in proper fashion. Vir might have been completely unfit for courtly life – and the perspective that he, too, was supposed to become Emperor one day, according to the same prophecy, promised a sad, sad future for the Republic – but he had his uses.

For starters, he was willing and able to do the work of a literal army of servants around an ambassador's person. Plus, he was more loyal than any Centauri ought to be – a personality flaw, no question about that, but it made him very valuable. With him around, Londo didn't have to keep a satchel full of broad-band antidotes on his person all the time as most Centauri nobles saw necessary to do.

Strangely enough, the thought that Vir might one day poison him didn't even occur to Londo. Even knowing that Vir would one day follow him on the throne. That just wasn't in Vir's nature… not that Londo would consider it a good thing for _Vir_, but it certainly was a good thing for _him_.

Somewhat mollified, Londo took his favourite chair, accepted the first course from Vir, and told his aide in an off-handed manner:

"I have decided that G'Kar must be dealt with."

* * *

Down in _Voyager_'s Engineering, the captain, her executive officer, the chief engineer, several other engineering technicians and the chief of operations were standing in a wary circle around a melon-sized item, surrounded by a level ten forcefield. Accompanying them were Michael Garibaldi and Morishi, who'd been beamed over from the fusion reactor control chamber, together with the bomb. Morishi and Ken Dalby were still in Babylon 5-issue EVA suits, having only removed their helms.

To say that Captain Janeway was _not_ pleased would have been an understatement.

"Care to tell me how a bomb of unknown origins and configuration has ended up in our engine room?" she asked icily.

"That's a long story, Captain," Torres began, but Janeway interrupted her with a look that could have frozen Vulcan's Forge over.

"Make it short," she ordered.

"Mr. Garibaldi's people found this bomb attached to the station's fusion reactor," Torres began.

"Actually, it was Seven who discovered its emissions while checking the comm system of their command core," Hogan supplied helpfully.

Torres silenced him with a quelling look. She didn't like being interrupted.

"Mr. Garibaldi called in for help," she continued, "and Ayala dispatched Dalby because he knows the most about bombs and how to disarm them."

"And the thought to inform _me_ first – or Chakotay, for that matter – never occurred to you?" Janeway asked.

Torres looked properly contrite. "To be honest, Captain… I completely forgot about protocol. Dalby reported that it's a remote-controlled bomb; we were running against time to disable it before the bomber could push the button. _We'd have_ blown up as well if it went out in the fusion reactors of the station!"

"I see," Janeway's tone clearly suggested that the matter wasn't quite finished yet, but she wanted to deal with the matter of the bomb first. "Are you sure it's not going to explode in the middle of Engineering?"

"Fairly sure," Torres replied. "I've sent the specifics – as far as we've been able to figure them out – to Tuvok's station, and he agrees that the risk is minimal. But we've put it under a forcefield anyway, just to be sure."

"Why not beam it into space and blow it up in safe distance from the station?" Chakotay asked.

"That was our first thought, too," Torres admitted, "but Mr. Garibaldi asked us not to do so."

"We hope that the bomber would return to the fusion reactors to check his handiwork if he can't make it explode," Garibaldi explained. "That would help a lot to unveil this conspiracy and flush out most of the sympathizers."

"If you say so," the captain said dryly. "I must admit that I'm still not happy with the solution. I don't like people endangering my ship just because they're unable to deal with their problems on their own."

"Frankly, I agree," Chakotay added. "I hope Ms Alexander will recover soon enough, so that the people in the brig can be thoroughly investigated. I'm not adverse helping Captain Sheridan keep the station in one piece – it's in our interest, too – but I don't want our ship to become a target for his enemies."

"So what if we do?" Torres asked with a shrug. "We've got far superior technology than Earth humans of this period."

"Perhaps," Chakotay said, "although that is by no means certain. We can't know what they have up their sleeves. Besides, even if what you said is true, they still have the _numbers_. We're not invulnerable, B'Elanna… and we must consider our options very carefully, or else we'll end up changing history in this universe."

"I wonder if it wouldn't be a change for the better," Garibaldi muttered. Then he looked at the Klingon. "So, what next?"

"We're all but done with the scans," Torres replied. "If we find a safe way to dismantle the bomb, we'll do so, and send the parts to you."

"You better send them to Morishi," Garibaldi nodded in the direction of the ponytailed man in the EVA suit. "He might even make heads and tails of it."

"Will do," Torres promised.

"But what if you can't dismantle it?" Morishi asked.

"Then we'll beam it into space and blow it up, as Chakotay suggested," Torres answered absently, her mind already weighing the possibilities.

"Very well," Janeway said. "Let's give it a try. And B'Elanna?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Do something like this without my knowledge again, and you've been chief engineer on my ship for the longest time," Janeway warned. "There will be consequences… as soon as you have dealt with the bomb."

* * *

Rastenn tracked down Lennier to Red Sector, in the hollow interior of the rotating section that was called the Garden. The main purpose of this area was to provide food and oxygen and water reclamation for the station. But there were also parts separated for entertainment purposes of the station inhabitants: a hedge maze, a Zen garden, various sports fields, a recreation lake, a rotunda, a mosque, a pavilion, and the high class Fresh Air Restaurant.

Needless to say that the place where he actually found the young priest was the Japanese stone garden: a small one, not larger than a little pond. Lennier was sitting on a low bench encircled by the brick-like walls of a small, U-shaped enclosure, contemplating the waves of fine sand encircling the strategically placed flat stones.

"This used to be the favourite place of _entil'zha_ Sinclair," he said without turning his eyes away from the peaceful sight. "He once told Delenn how difficult it had been to segregate even this small patch for a garden made of stones and sand. Room is invaluable on a space station, after all, and they needed the land for the hydroponic props and oxygen reclamation. But he had fought for it, and finally succeeded."

"What is the purpose of such a place?" Rastenn asked, coming closer. "It's barren – even though aesthetically so."

"Look at the waves: each moving on its own order – predictable, unchanging… until you drop in a stone. Do you see how the pattern changes? Everything around the stone is altered – arranged into a whole new order. Delenn once said that all the ancient, holy books on Minbar cannot demonstrate the power of _one_ mind to change the universe as well as this modest little place," Lennier paused, then finally looked up at his fellow Minbari. "What can I do for you, Rastenn of the Star Riders Clan?"

"I require information," Rastenn answered bluntly. "Vir suggested that I ask you about the _Sher'shok Dum_. He said if I did I would understand the true danger represented by the human whom they call Morden."

Hearing that name Lennier stiffened involuntarily.

"You have dealings with that man?" he asked.

"No," Rastenn said. "But he did approach me today, and perhaps he will do so again. I must know who – or rather _what_ – he is, in order to deal with him properly."

"You may be a trained warrior, but you could never deal with that human on your own," Lennier replied grimly. "He is what humans call a Shadow agent – a representative of the _Sher'shok Dum_. They speak through him, and at least one of them accompanies him all the time. He and two Shadow warriors were those who killed the first Ambassador Kosh, after the Vorlons had dealt the _Sher'shok Dum_ their first defeat."

"And Starkiller still allows him to stay on the station?" Rastenn asked in surprise.

"_Captain Sheridan_," Lennier emphasized pointedly, "could not do anything. We had no proof. Besides, it would have been a grave mistake to reveal to the _Sher'shok Dum_ that we can discover their presence. This station is imperilled enough as it is."

"So the Ancient Enemy has indeed returned," Rastenn said slowly. "Just as Valen has foretold a thousand years ago. Just as Delenn has warned the Council."

Lennier simply nodded. What else could he have said; Rastenn had apparently figured out the truth without his help. The question was now, what the young warrior was intended to do with that truth.

"And that is why the Religious Caste is building ships in great secrecy," Rastenn continued. "Not to establish their power all over Minbar as Shai Alyt Shakiri is trying to make us believe. You are preparing to fight the _Sher'shok Dum_."

Lennier nodded again. "Someone has to," he replied simply. "The Warrior Caste leaders refused to believe. The Grey Council refused to believe. The _Makar'i Minsa_ refused to believe. So we had to turn to the Anla'shok – and to the humans, yes. Because weak as they might be on their own, humans have the unique ability to build communities. That is what Babylon 5 is all about. And this time, with most of the First Ones long gone, we shall need all the allies we can find."

"And we of the Warrior Caste dishonour ourselves by letting others fight our battles," the realization was a painful one for Rastenn. He had always been so proud to be a warrior. He had never doubted that his heart called him to walk that path – and now he was supposed to leave the fighting to priests, workers… and _aliens_?

"That is a question I cannot answer for you," Lennier said quietly. "But I do know that in this fight everyone will be needed – even the Warrior Caste. _Especially_ the Warrior Caste."

"What do you mean?"

"You have been trained to protect our people all your life. You have the weapons and you have the skills. If only you could find the willingness in your hearts as well! Since Valen's times, there had never been a danger as great as this one. Not for our people alone – for all free peoples of the universe!"

"Alas, I doubt that you would be able to make Shai Alyt Shakiri to see that," Rastenn said. "But my uncle also has great influence within the Caste."

"That is true," Lennier agreed. "Will _he_ see the dire need of these times, though?"

"I do not know," Rastenn admitted. "I do know, however, that he has had a change of heart since he fought _denn'shah_ with the human Anla'shok. Perhaps he would listen this time. I sent word that he should return to Babylon 5."

"And will he come, at your word?" Lennier asked. "I know you are his heir, but you are not fully adult yet."

"Neither are you," Rastenn pointed out. "And yet, would your family – or, in fact, even Delenn – not come if you asked? My uncle has left me here to learn; but also to be his eyes and ears here and alert him when his presence is needed. He _will_ come."

"And you will try to make him listen?" Lennier asked, still a bit doubtfully.

Rastenn shook his head. "No, I shall leave that to Anla'shok Cole. I believe he has the better chance."

"Better than you who are his heir?" Lennier couldn't quite imagine that. "As much as Neroon has come to respect Marcus – and I do believe that he has – he can dismiss a human easily. He cannot dismiss his own heir, through."

"That is true," Rastenn admitted. "But as you have said, I am not fully adult yet. Besides, it would be better for us all if my uncle decided to join your forces of his own will: because he believes in the case, rather than having him simply give in to his heir's demands."

"You do have a point," Lennier allowed. "Very well; do it your way. Perhaps if Alyt Neroon truly has a change of heart, other Warrior leader will follow."

* * *

Londo's statement – that he would have to deal with G'Kar – startled Vir considerably. He couldn't believe that Londo would want to waste his time with that old personal vendetta – especially right now, when so much was at stake – for Londo personally and for all people living on Babylon 5 generally. Half the races were at war, and even though the Republic was uninvolved – this time! – it didn't mean that the storms of war won't wipe over them at one moment as well. And then there was the matter of Lord Refa and the presence of Mr. Morden on the station…

However, he knew that speaking up openly against that plan would only inspire Londo to speed up his efforts in the matter. So Vir chose the indirect approach.

"I suppose you will have to, eventually," he said as neutrally as he could. It seemed, though, that he hadn't fooled his mentor.

"No, not eventually!" Londo retorted. "As quickly as possible!"

Vir sighed. This wouldn't be a simple argument, he could already see it.

"Londo, did it occur to you that this might not be the right time for that?" he asked carefully. "Your enemies at court are moving on against you; your reputation…"

"Don't preach me about my so-called reputation!" Londo interrupted. "Had you been more effective in getting me access to the human ship from the future, I might _not_ be in this undesirable position. If I think about it – it is all _your_ fault!"

Vir ignored the unjust accusation. He was used to Londo taking out his frustration on him and didn't really mind. He'd been treated a lot worse by his uncle Jeraddo all his life.

"I'm working on it," he replied. "The executive officer of the ship has agreed to a private audience. I'm sure I'll be able to get you on that ship, soon."

"Great," Londo replied with a definite lack of enthusiasm. "In the meantime, I'll deal with G'Kar – once and forever."

Vir refrained from rolling his eyes in exasperation – with considerable effort. It would be wasted on Londo anyway.

"I really believe that we have a lot bigger concerns than that," he said carefully. "Like figuring out what to do about your enemies at court. Or about all the other races that are at war. Are you really so concerned about G'Kar?"

Londo raised a lecturing forefinger and Vir groaned inwardly. That gesture always meant a lecture in brilliant unlogic that, for some strange reason, always ended with _him_ looking like a fool.

"Big concerns grow from small concerns," Londo pontificated. "You plant them water them with tears, fertilize them with unconcern. If you ignore them, they grow! I have ignored this particular problem long enough."

"Perhaps," Vir still tried to sound reasonable, although in the heart of his hearts he knew all too well that it was a lost case to try reasoning with Londo in his current mood. "But Sheridan has given him sanctuary. There's nothing you can do against him as long as he's here."

"Yes, as long as he's here," Londo repeated slowly, as if instructing a backward child. "Which means, all I have to do is to find a way to get him away from here and back to Narn, where he can be arrested, detained and executed!"

He grabbed one of the blue crystal calices, tried a spoonful of the _machari_ pudding and made a sour face.

"This by you well done?" he demanded. "_Machari_ pudding should be honey-sweet!"

"Sorry," Vir exchanged the dessert in question with the one in the other calyx. He preferred his _machari_ pudding less sweet, and with a touch of mint; he must have mixed them up in his anxiety during Rastenn's visit.

Londo tasted the other portion and nodded in satisfaction. "Good. This is what _machari_ pudding is supposed to taste like. Well, you'll be happy to hear that I _have_ found a way to get G'Kar back to Narn."

Vir looked up from his dessert that suddenly tasted like fresh _spoo_. "You have?"

"Yes," Londo replied, and there was so much evil delight in his voice that it made the younger Centauri shiver. "And you, Vir, are going to help me."

Vir Cotto had never lost his appetite quite so quickly before.

* * *

Lennier returned from the Zen garden strangely comforted after his unexpected encounter with Rastenn. He almost (but not quite) forgot about the disembodied voice speaking to him in his quarters earlier. He briefly contemplated the idea of telling Delenn about it, but in the end decided not to do so. Delenn had enough concerns without worrying about her aide possibly losing his mind.

Besides, he wasn't sure that he was, indeed, getting crazy. That voice sounded mildly familiar. If he could only remember where he had already heard it!

He was fairly certain it hadn't happened on Babylon 5. So it must have been back home, at the Temple, as he had spent his entire life there, until coming to Babylon 5. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't remember. Which was strange, considering that he possessed the Minbari version of eidetic memory. But no matter how hard he tried, he kept coming up empty-handed.

The thought of returning to his own quarters where he might hear voices again appalled him. He went to Delenn's instead, to see whether he could be of assistance with her work. To his surprise, he found Commander Ivanova there, drinking tea with Delenn amiably.

"Oh, Lennier, good," Delenn said, seeing him. "Commander Ivanova has come to me with a problem and a suggestion. We were just about to discuss it. Take yourself a cup of tea and sit with us – I'd like to hear your opinion on the matter."

Lennier demurely took his usual place, helped himself to a soothing cup of herbal tea and waited patiently. He knew that Ivanova would skip social niceties and cut right to the core of the problem; this tendency of hers, although it stood in direct opposite to Minbari custom, could save a lot of time.

He wasn't disappointed in his expectations. Ivanova wasn't even halfway through her own tea when she addressed the problem.

"It's about the captain," she blurted out. "He's always in the war room. He isn't eating 7properly, he hasn't slept well since Kosh's death, and he's carrying on cranky. I think he might be suffering from nightmares, too, although he won't tell me. We need to do something. We need to get him away from the war room, at least for a short time; to distract him. Enough is enough!"

"Do you have a suggestion how we are supposed to solve this problem?" Lennier asked. "While I agree that Captain Sheridan is… how do you humans say? Oh, yes – he is working himself into an early grave; but I seriously doubt that he'd listen to our arguments, no matter how well-meant they might be."

Ivanova nodded, frustration clearly written in her face. „I know; I've tried. So I thought to invite the command crew of _Voyager_ to an official dinner. To spend a pleasant evening with _our_ command staff, to discuss things in a less formal manner. I'd like to invite you as well, Ambassador," she looked at Delenn, "and, to be honest, I hoped you could talk the captain into coming. If he listens to anyone, that would be you."

"Well… if you think so," Delenn said, a little doubtfully.

Ivanova nodded. "I _know_ it," she said and rose. "Well, thank you for the tea. I'm going back to C&C and make the necessary calls."

"I thought your duty shift would be over," Lennier said; he knew the duty roster of C&C by heart; it came in handy sometimes when he needed to find someone quickly.

"It is, but I don't want to leave Corwin alone with the _Voyager_ technicians," Ivanova replied with a grim smile. "He's a responsible young man, but that cyborg lady has… _assets_ that would make the heads of most men spin. _Human_ men, I mean," he added with an apologetic glance in Lennier's direction. Good day, Ambassador. I'll see you in the evening. The official invitation will be sent to you within the hour."

With that, she left, leaving two slightly confused Minbari behind.

"What did Commander Ivanova meant by 'carrying on cranky'?" Lennier asked. He spoke English well enough, but slang still escaped his understanding.

"I have no idea," Delenn admitted. "But we do have a virtual dictionary somewhere, do we not? Perhaps we should look up the word 'cranky', hm?"

Lennier was already shifting through the electronic notepads and held up the one with the language database triumphantly. He switched it on, typed in the word in question – and then looked at Delenn in utter confusion.

"It says 'grouchy". I do not understand. Should it not _explain_ the word, instead giving us another one we cannot interpret?"

"Look up 'grouchy'; perhaps we shall get the real meaning _then_," Delenn suggested, but with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Lennier did as he had been told – and looked even more confused by the results.

"It says 'crotchety' now," he said. Something here does not make any sense. This cannot be a word – can it?"

"No wonder humans have such an eccentric culture," Delenn commented. "None of their words have their own meaning. You have to look up one word to understand another… then another… then another… It never ends! Just like their discussions about completely insignificant matters that they actually find humorous."

"So, do we know what ails Captain Sheridan or not?" Lennier had now completely lost any possible perspective about the matter. He hated that feeling. He was a scholar and a diplomat's aide – he was supposed to _understand_ things!

"I am not certain what all those colourful expressions truly mean," Delenn admitted. "But based on what Ivanova has told us, I think the captain is frustrated, overworked and in a foul mood. Three excellent reasons to drag him out of his hiding hole."

"I agree, but how do you intend to do it?" Lennier asked. "Captain Sheridan is a very stubborn man."

"True, but also one who takes honour seriously," Delenn replied with a sly grin. "I shall tell him I have already agreed in his name to have dinner with the _Voyager_ officers – which is the truth. Then I shall tell him that since Minbari do not lie, except to save another, I would be publicly dishonoured if he said no."

"And _that_ will work?" Lennier asked doubtfully.

Delenn's grin thinned a little and became calculating.., almost menacing for a moment.

"He knows he must stay in our good graces," she said. "After all, we are the only major power that still supports him. Besides, once I have dragged him out of the war room, he would love to discuss things with the _Voyager_ officers – his only fellow humans he could be honest with."

* * *

In a shadowy, abandoned area of DownBelow, two men – humans, by the looks of them – wearing long black cloaks and strange-looking staffs, finally found together.

"So, here have you been hiding all these years," the younger, the one with the bald head and almost electric blue eyes, said.

The older, silver-haired and more portly one shrugged.

"We always have to be somewhere," he replied. "This place seemed to be as good as any… so far."

"But no longer," the younger one said. It was not a question.

The older one shook his head. "No, no longer. In one thing the others were right, you know. We cannot allow our secrets to fall into the wrong hands – which is why I need to get out of here; metaphorically, metaphysically and literally. I've been here for too long; the Shadow agents might stumble over my trail any time now. I've counteracted their actions as well as I could while still hiding… perhaps I have done too much."

"And what are you going to do now?" the younger one asked. "Follow the others beyond the Rim?"

The older one shook his head again. "No; aside from the fact that they would never welcome me back, what would be the end of it? With Elric gone, there's nobody left who would at least be willing to listen. No, I will relocate to some nice, far-away planet and sit out this war."

"And do nothing?" there was a slight accusatory tone in the younger man's voice.

The older one shrugged. "I am but one man, and what one man can do, I've already done. _Together_, we could have made a true difference, but the others decided that the sorrows of the rest of the universe do not concern them and went into hiding."

"They are afraid," the younger one replied with a shrug of his own. "Fear makes wise man foolish, or so it is said."

"Well, let's hope that in _your_ case, it makes fools wise," the older one replied. "You must take over guardianship over this place. Whatever the others might believe, we _do_ have an obligation towards our own race."

The younger one shook his head again. "I go my own way, Alwyn – you know that. I always have. I cannot be responsible for others."

"Yes, you can," the older one retorted. "This time, you _must_ – because there is no-one else who could do it."

"I have already been penalized for helping other people," the younger one said. "The others already believe that I am having too much contact with the outside world. They say, I am endangering them. That I risk exposing our hiding place. If I get involved any further, they might ask me to leave – for ever."

"That is a very real risk, knowing the others," the old man by the name of Alwyn admitted. "And only you can decide whether you are willing to take that risk – it is your choice and nobody else's."

"Yet you think I should take the risk," that, again, was _not_ a question. "May I ask why?"

"The humans and their allies are gathering their forces to make their move against the Shadows," the older one said. "As long as the Shadow agent is on the station, there is no chance fort hem to succeed. The element of surprise is the only advantage thy might have – but you know as well as I do that there are no secrets while the Shadows are present. However, they cannot move around the station without their agent – they exist out of phase and can't operate standard equipment on their own."

"So, if I… _persuade_ their agent to leave the station, they would be forced to leave with him," the younger one finished the thought.

"Right."

"Why are you not doing so yourself, then?"

"I've tried," the old man said, "but I'm too old and too powerful. Each time I tried to corner their puppet, they discovered my approach and moved him to a place with too many witnesses… or possible victims. Too many innocent onlookers would have been harmed – or even killed – by an open confrontation."

"I see," the younger one said after a moment of consideration. "So, you are too strong to chase them away, while I, young and insignificant enough as our kind goes, might – just might! – succeed. But what if I am too weak?"

"You _could_ be killed," the older one admitted, "or forced to destroy yourself in order to prevent your secrets to fall into their hands, yes. That, too, is a risk that you must take if you want to… to _do_ something, as you have so eloquently put it. Again, it's your choice. Yours alone."

"I… I have to think about this," the younger man said.

"Then think quickly," the older one replied, "because we're running out of time. The Shadows are on the move. They have been herding refugees into Sector 83 for months. Soon, they will launch a devastating attack – just as they have done against the Kaikeen Confederacy less than a month ago."

"I understand that," the younger one said. "But there are several aspects of this problem that need to be taken under consideration."

"Then consider them carefully," the old man replied, "and make your choice, soon. Or this sector of space will go the way of the Kaikeen Confederacy."

* * *

The invitation to meet Babylon 5's command staff for a formal dinner came as a surprise.

"Did you know about this?" Janeway asked his executive officer.

Chakotay shook his head. "No; in fact, it's something of an inconvenience for me. I already had plans for tonight."

Janeway gave him a wink and a conspiratory grin. "I see. A private dinner with the lovely doctor Hobbs?"

"Something like that," Chakotay confessed. "Of course, as she's the acting chief medical officer of the station right now, she would probably be invited as well. I'll have to clear with her, though. When will this dinner take place?"

"In two standard hours," Janeway replied. "It's a little late, perhaps; but not too late for a few quiet hours afterwards."

Chakotay grinned at her. "Playing matchmaker again, Captain? You just can't help doing it, can you?"

"Well, we all need a hobby; besides, today's event clearly showed how short life could be," Janeway said, sobering quickly. "Any news from Engineering? Since we haven't blown up yet, I assume things are going smoothly."

"They're working on taking the bomb apart," Chakotay informed her. "Dalby and that Morishi person from Mr. Garibaldi's people seem to have the time of their lives. I think there's another beautiful friendship coming together."

"Based on explosives and deadly peril," Janeway shook her head in mild exasperation. "How terrific. O they really know what they're doing? Is it safe to play around with the device?"

"Tuvok seems to think so, and that's good enough for me," Chakotay shrugged.

"For me, too," Janeway said. "However, Commander, we need to discuss disciplinary measures. What Lieutenants Ayala and Torres did today was irresponsible, unacceptable and against proper protocol. They acted without thinking, without consulting their superior officers, and endangered the entire ship with their actions. Than must _not_ happen again."

"Agreed," Chakotay said. "I was surprised myself how easily they've fallen back to the old Maquis pattern, just because we're not alone anymore."

"Are we not?" Janeway asked. "These people might be humans, and Earth might be within easy reach, but this is not _our_ Earth – and frankly, after what we've learned so far, not an Earth where I'd wish to live."

"Neither would I," Chakotay admitted.

"Which is the exact reason why we can't allow discipline to fall apart and people to act on a whim of their hearts as they please," Janeway pointed out.

"Chakotay nodded. "Again, I agree. What would you suggest? Are you giving them an official reprimand or busting them down to ensigns?"

"That wouldn't work," Janeway sighed. "As ensigns they couldn't keep their current positions, and let's face it, we need them exactly where they are. I'll give them that official dressing down, of course, but I also want _you_ to talk to them. They used to be your people; the chance that they'd listen to _you_ is a fair one."

"I already planned to," Chakotay said. "To be honest, the idea of beaming a bomb aboard has shocked me a bit. I know B'Elanna is spontaneous, but that was plainly and simply a stupid thing to do. We're not _that_ desperate anymore."

"Does that mean you actually did such things in the Maquis?" Janeway asked, more than a little stunned.

"We did a lot of desperately stupid things in the Maquis," Chakotay replied with a shrug. "Including harvesting Cardassian ships and weaponry whenever we could. We didn't really have the chance to order weapons and spare parts from Starfleet, you know. We had to take what we found, even if it sometimes got blown up into our faces. Such old reflexes are hard to break sometimes."

"Perhaps," Janeway allowed. "I don't want such lapses to happen in the future, though. They are unnecessary and dangerous."

"And I already said that I agree," Chakotay answered. "I'll keep a closer eye on my former comrades, just in case more old Maquis reflexes start kicking in."

"Good," Janeway said emphatically. "Well, now that this is settled; whom do you think I should leave behind in charge while we are at diner with the station's senior staff?"

"Perhaps Tuvok wouldn't mind to escape all too human small talk," Chakotay suggested. "Lieutenant Rollins has the necessary qualifications, too, of course, but I'd rather have the ship in more experienced hands. With most of the command staff abroad, it would offer an ideal target for infiltrators… or worse. Unless…"

"…unless Tuvok is watching," Janeway finished for him. "That's a good idea. Besides if I know Tuvok – and I think I do – he'd prefer a peaceful duty shift to having to listen to idle human conversation."

"That would be the logical deduction, yes," Chakotay deadpanned; then he rose. "Well, Captain, if that would be all, I have dinner plans to change."

"And I have promised Tuvok to relieve him for an hour, so that he can pay Sickbay a long-overdue visit," Janeway replied, stepping with him into the turbolift cabin.

* * *

Lyta Alexander was experiencing a level of peace in _Voyager_'s sickbay the like of which she had not experienced for a long time. The design of the facility was simple, yet not as impersonal as she was used to from Earth-issue hospitals, and the company was… restful. _Voyager_'s doctor was a hologram without any brain patterns she'd have to shield her mind from, and the only nurse, a sweet-faced, small-boned, sprite-like creature, was of a telepathic race with strong natural shields. In the safety of the drydock, there were barely any patients, save from the occasional working accident, and what was an added bonus, here she was safe from Ulkesh.

Having been bested by the seemingly fragile Ocampa nurse had sent the Vorlon sulking in his quarters for days, and when he'd emerged again, Lyta had been already injured and brought to _Voyager_. She knew Ulkesh would never risk entering the ship by force – not yet, anyway, not without the support of his own kind. He'd been beaten in his own game, and now he was waiting and watching, like a spider in the middle of its net. Lyta could only hope that Kes was truly as strong as Tuvok seemed to believe, because an embarrassed Vorlon was a dangerous foe. They were an extremely old race who kept grudges for an extremely long time.

She had no idea what would come next. The long-winded plans of the Vorlons, the secrets they were keeping – some of which she was now privy to and wished fervently that he weren't – filled her with dread. As long as the old Kosh had still been alive, she could at least hope that they were, indeed, fighting for a just case. But now, since she'd been forced to carry Ulkesh within her, she had the sinking feeling that it was all a big lie. That the younger races, desperately fighting form mere survival, were nothing but chess pieces in a big, circular game that would never end.

In her moments of clarity, she sometimes asked whether it was truly worth the struggle. Whether it hadn't been better to simply give up and embrace death as the only way of escape on a personal _and_ genetic level. At least in death, they all would have piece.

A gentle tug on the border of her consciousness alerted her to the presence of another person – another telepath. The well-tamed storm of violent emotions kept under tight control revealed that person to be Tuvok. Lyta smiled, without opening her eyes.

She'd come to value the company of the Vulcan. She liked his dark elegance, his measured economy of words and gestures, his well-ordered thought patterns. In his own way, Tuvok was also a restful person to be with. Lyta had never considered finding a partner, but she'd come to understand that _if_ she wanted one, it would be someone like Tuvok. Someone calm. Someone disciplined. Someone _safe_.

She knew it wouldn't be possible, of course. Aside from being a hundred-year-old alien from a foreign universe, Tuvok was also married and the father of four grown children. And Vulcans, like Minbari, mated for life. She understood that. She respected that. She just couldn't help feeling some regret about might-have-beens.

Tuvok took the chair standing next to her bed and gave her a long, thorough look.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

Lyta swallowed before speaking. Several times. The meds made her mouth dry like sand all the time. It was not a pleasant feeling.

"Better," she finally answered. "Still weak, but better."

"Do you believe you are up to some mental exercises?" the Vulcan asked. "The stimulants you were given right after your injury have taken their toll on you – that is why you are weaker than you should be right now."

Lyta nodded. "I can do it," she whispered. "I _need_ stronger shielding. Soon, I'll have to return… to Ulkesh… and he will want to know… everything."

"Actually," Tuvok said after a moment of consideration, "I was thinking of something different."

"Different… in what way?" Lyta asked.

For a while, the Vulcan didn't answer, as if still uncertain whether he was planning to do the right thing.

"I thought you might benefit from learning how to induce the Vulcan healing trance," he finally said. "It is my understanding that Captain Sheridan wants the captured Night Watch members scanned. However, you are still not strong enough to perform several deep scans… and will not be for quite some time yet. The healing trance could cut back your recovery time by half."

"Isn't it also… dangerous?" Lyta asked.

Tuvok tilted his head to the side in an almost bird-like manner. It was a strangely endearing gesture from a man like him.

"It would never occur to me to teach it to a mere human," he said. "Not even to the average human telepath. Yes, there _is_ considerable risk involved – but you have the mental strength to manage it. Otherwise, I would not suggest it."

"I see," Lyta weighed the pros and contras against each other. "And it would cut back recovery time, you say?"

"Considerably."

"And you will be here to help me when I come back to myself?"

"Of course. You will need my help to come out of the trance."

"Very well. Show me how it is done."

~TBC~

**

* * *

**

Centauri terms:

_Koral Pridho_ = Centauri duelling society. Both Londo and Urza were members.

_Scowltura_ = Urza's nickname in the _Koral Pridho_

_Murago_ = duel to the death. According to the rules of the _Koral Pridho_, the winner had to take the family of the loser's into his own.

_Machari_ pudding = imaginari Centauri dish, involved by me. Think of a pudding made of something akin to macadamia nuts.


	4. Chapter 4

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Before anyone tries to lynch me: yes, Harry Kim is canonically a Christian. There's even a crucifix hanging on the wall of his cabin aboard _Voyager_. Even though that's the only clue to his spiritual orientation.

**

* * *

**

PART 04

Marcus Cole, Babylon 5's only resident Ranger, was bored out of his head. His recovery was slower than he had expected, and that made him grumpy, itchy, impatient and generally a pain in the backside for the poor, overworked medical staff. He just couldn't understand why it was taking so long. He had been injured before – Ranger training wasn't for the fragile in body _or_ mind, and besides, he _had_ served in the Earth-Minbari war as a very young man. Unlike some human Rangers, he was not an inexperienced greenhorn. He should have dealt with the aftermath better.

Although, if he thought about it, never before had damaged him quite so deliberately and thoroughly as Neroon had done.

Not that Neroon could have been the only one to blame. Marcus knew that. Neroon _had_ offered him a way out, and Marcus also knew that the Minbari would never have spoken about his chickening out. Minbari warriors were mindful about one's honour – even about that of their enemies. Marcus _could_ have gotten away relatively unharmed… but _that_ would have meant bloodshed during the inauguration ceremony, and, as a result, possibly civil war on Minbar.

To be perfectly honest, Marcus didn't really care _who_ was leading the Rangers, as long as they fulfilled their purpose: to guard the innocent against the upcoming darkness. But Delenn had been Sinclair's choice, and for Marcus, _Sinclair_ had been and would always be the One for whom he was willing to die. He had challenged Neroon to _denn'shah_ to defend Sinclair's legacy; he would die for Delenn, because Sinclair had chosen her to fulfil that legacy.

It was that simple.

All those highly idealistic considerations did nothing to ease his current pain, however. Or his current boredom. It had been fun to watch the glaring match between Harry and Neroon's young, hot-headed nephew a couple of hours earlier, but unfortunately, it had not lasted long. Rastenn had left to meet someone – presumably one of Neroon's spies. Marcus knew Minbari tactics well enough to assume that the various Clans of the Warrior Caste had all quite a number of informants on Babylon 5. Knowledge was power, after all.

In any case, Rastenn had left quite early, and soon thereafter, Harry had been "beamed out", in the middle of the lame joke he had been telling, and never came back.

Marcus knew that some sort of crisis had to be happening on the station. He had had his suspicions when the _Voyager_ people had used their particle transporter to snatch Harry directly from his room. They didn't flaunt their superior technology unless they absolutely had to – which, in Marcus' opinion, was the intelligent thing to do. If they thought it _was_ necessary, then something had to be up.

When Susan hadn't dropped in at her usual time to visit him, Marcus realized that the crisis had to be a fairly major one. Susan _never_ missed her appointments. She was as meticulously ordered and punctual as the station's main computer. And the fact that B'Elanna Torres hadn't come to visit him, as promised, after her duty shift ended, could only mean that they had a serious apocalypse coming. One that affected both _Voyager_ and station personnel.

The medical staff couldn't tell him anything, but that wasn't really a surprise. Stephen had always complained that the MedLabs were the place where news arrived the latest. So he gad no other choice than to wait – with growing impatience – until someone would finally remember that he was still there.

He was ready to crawl up the walls when Dr. Hobbs finally came to his room.

"Your latest results are promising," she told him. "I think I can release you in three days' time. But until them… do you feel like socializing a little?"

"It depends," Marcus replied carefully. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Commander Ivanova organized a formal dinner for _Voyager_'s senior staff," Lillian explained, "and apparently, Delenn has somehow blackmailed the captain into participating. They would like you to be there, too."

"What for?" Marcus frowned. "Do they need a guinea pig to show that they are not poisoning anyone?"

The doctor gave him a stern look full of reproval.

"I assume they want to discuss some serious issues in a private circle," she said. "And since you've been a key figure in several recent events, thy need your input. Although," she added thoughtfully, "it's sometimes truly hard to withstand the urge to poison you."

Laughing was still way too painful, Marcus decided. His mending ribs apparently preferred him in a more… dignified mood.

"Very well," he said. "Could you have my uniform brought here? There might not be a dress code, but I seriously doubt that sleeping garments would be acceptable, even if I arrived in a wheelchair."

* * *

Londo Mollari was standing in front of the large mirror in his quarters, admiring himself in his best coat. Yes, he still looked dashing and dignified – and those who considered him and his position a joke and thought they could best him easily would experience the surprise of their lives – and not necessarily a pleasant one.

They thought him a broken old man; an aged predator with no teeth left to bite. Well, they were going to learn otherwise.

His plans had already been set to motion. Guards loyal to his House – men whose fathers and grandfathers had served House Mollari faithfully for generations – had been assigned to Refa's entourage. The proof pointing in Refa's direction has been gathered and recorded. G'Kar would play his part, as he had been promised a price he could not refuse.

Now all depended on his innocent, most faithful ally; an ally who had no idea how he would be used and why. To a certain extent, Londo even regretted having to do so; but there was no other way. Vengeance was coming within his reach, and he would _not_ let it slip through his fingers again.

Right on clue, Vir came through the door, agitated.

"Londo!" he exclaimed. "I just heard! Lord Refa is…"

"Londo waved him off. "Lord Refa is here with Minister Virini. Yes, I know. I am on my way to see them. You will meet me there."

"I will?" Vir repeated with a frown. "I'm not going with you?"

"Oh, you will," Londo bared his fangs in a shark-like grin, making Vir cringe involuntarily. "After you've run an errand for me."

_

* * *

_

_Voyager'_s team of technicians finished their comm system check and let C&C to return to their ship. The Vulcan and the Bolian went straight back, that is; but Seven of Nine decided to take the scenic tour… or so it seemed. Strolling through the corridors of the docking area randomly, she finally stopped in the middle of one in a rather abrupt manner.

"Show yourself and state your intention!" he demanded coldly.

"Such aloof manners… such cool distance from all the mundane struggles of mankind!" a light tenor voice answered, and a bald-headed man in a long, black cloak emerged from the shadows. "Quite admirable, actually. But you do not need to worry about me; I mean no harm."

"I am not worried," Seven declared. "You are but a human; I am Borg. You are no match for me."

"Oh, but appearances can be deceiving, can't they?" the man said with a very satisfied expression. "Perhaps I am much stronger than I look. Perhaps I have hidden powers you can't even imagine."

"Unlikely," Seven replied coldly. "If you believe that I cannot spot the implants under your clothes, you are mistaken. My cranial implants react to all sort of technical equipment embedded in human flesh – that is how Borg drones recognize each other."

"Oh, but do you also know what they are capable of?" the man asked, irrationally amused by her answer. "Do you know the magic they can work?"

"'Magic' is a mere product of immature human imagination," Seven declared, "that can't yet understand the hidden connections of science and natural law. Pretending that you are capable of wielding magic only proves your lack of true scientific understanding."

"Does it?" he asked, even more amused than before. "Can science teach you the big secrets, the truly important ones? Can it teach you the fourteen words that make someone fall in love with you forever? Or the seven words that make them go without pain? Or what to say to a friend who is dying? Can science help you to rediscover dreams that life has stolen from you?"

Seven raised the eyebrow without the cranial implant.

"Love, as humans understand it is irrelevant," she stated coldly. "It is merely a biochemical reaction, fuelled by the species' reproductive instinct. Pain is also irrelevant – once its function for the individual's survival is fulfilled, it will pass."

"And what about death?" the man asked. "Is death irrelevant as well?"

"It is, if you are lucky enough to be Borg," Seven replied calmly. "If you are part of the Collective, your memories, your individual distinction are added to the whole. What happens to the hull you inhabit," she made a sweeping gesture down her body, "no longer matters. It is part of the whole, too, and utterly exchangeable."

The man gave her a strange look. "Is that what you thrive to achieve?" he asked.

"That is what has been taken from me," Seven answered matter-of-factly. "I understand that Captain Janeway believes she has 'helped' me to regain my individuality. That her intentions were what humans call 'noble'. But in the end, intentions are irrelevant, too. What counts are _facts_. And the fact is that she has taken me from the Collective where I had my place and my purpose and forced me to lead a life that has long become alien to me."

"Do you resent what she did?" the man asked.

"What I might feel about it is, too, irrelevant," Seven replied with an elegant shrug. "This is my life now, and I have to learn how to live without hearing the others in my mind."

"It must be a lonely existence," the man said.

Seven shrugged again. "It is what it is."

"But it was not your choice," the man said.

"Neither was being assimilated by the Collective," Seven pointed out logically. "In that, Captain Janeway was right. She believed that she has 'rescued' me from being part of a hive mind where individuality has no place. She never asked herself – or _me_ – whether I _wanted_ to be rescued. She has made that choice for me, just as the Borg had done when I was a child."

"But if you _had_ a choice," the man said, "which way of existence would you choose?"

"Contemplating impossible choices is irrelevant," Seven replied.

"Perhaps," the man said. "Perhaps not. Since you _are_ an individual now, it gives you the questionable privilege to make your own decisions. And so I ask you again, Seven of Nine, you who once used to be a human child – which way of existence do you choose?"

Seven considered the question for a moment. "I would choose _not_ to be alone," she finally said.

The man bowed to her in a somewhat theatrical fashion. "Then, maybe, there will be a way for you – one that you can accept as your own."

Seven raised the unimplanted eyebrow again. "You are a peculiar creature."

"Why, thank you!" the man actually seemed pleased. "I have been called many things in my life, but peculiar… this is a first!"

Seven had had enough from his mind games.

"You _will_ give me your destination and your function on this station," she demanded forcefully. "You will tell me _now_!"

The man shrugged. "Why not? My name is Galen – and I am a friend. That is my only function – though some people seem to think that it is enough."

"A friend of whom?" Seven asked.

"Of all who wish to survive the upcoming great storm," the man named Galen replied. "Take care, Seven of Nine from the starship _Voyager_. We shall speak again, when the time is right."

With that, he bowed again and merged with the shadows. Seven scanned the area with her tricorder, but there were no readings whatsoever that could have proved that he had been there at all. Not even the usual residues that would have been by a holographic projection.

It was apparent that the man – assuming he had been real, not just the product of a malfunctioning crania implant – knew a method to blind the tricorder. Deciding to search the station's database for people like him, Seven turned on her high heels and went back to _Voyager_. She had been up and about for thirty-eight standards hours. It was time to regenerate.

She stepped into the small chamber in the cargo bay and initiated the regeneration cycle. Her body and mind went into dormant mode immediately, so she could not longer see Galen, who stepped out of the shadows to watch her for a while.

"Yes," he murmured thoughtfully. "Perhaps your way is the one that can save us all. I believe you will serve nicely as the nexus.

* * *

Once again, Rastenn of the Star Riders had donned his Warrior Caste disguise before going to infiltrate the diplomatic section of Green Sector. Even with all those Minbari priests, clerks, Rangers and spies around Delenn coming and going all the time, a warrior would have drawn unwanted attention. And attention was the last thing he would want when trying to outsmart the ruthless, paranoid and _very_ experienced Centauri agents.

His task was particularly difficult today. Minister Virini and Lord Refa, two Centauri dignitaries who had arrived to Babylon 5 somewhen during the day, had been known as two of the major war-mongers at Emperor Cartagia's court. Whatever they were up to, it would affect other people as well – especially as Refa, too, had been seen in the company of that human Shadow agent, Morden.

So when he had seen them coming through Customs, Rastenn knew at once that his uncle would like to learn as much about their agenda as possible. It was a risky thing, as Centauri had no problems whatsoever with killing suspicious people on the spot – or capturing and torturing them, for that matter – but Rastenn was a trained warrior _and_ an experienced spy. Besides, he hoped that he could still count on Vir to help him.

Hacking into the station's computer to find the quarters assigned to the Centauri nobles had been the easy part. Staying out of the eyesight of the numerous guards had been an inspiring challenge, but he knew he'd be able to do so, in the end. Part of his extensive training had been to learn how to shield his mind, so that the telepaths Centauri nobles usually took with them to their travels would not be able to sense his presence.

All those minor tasks achieved, he was now lurking within eyesight to Minister Virini's quarters, trying to figure out a way how to infiltrate them. _That _was a hard one, and he'd already spent there some time, wracking his mind over the problem, when the door opened and Londo and Vir stormed out.

The younger Centauri began to argue with his boss as soon as they were out the door. Fortunately, High Centauri was one of the languages Rastenn had learned during his training.

"I don't believe this!" the young aide ranted. "Is that why you're doing this? To win favour at the Royal Court? How can you do this to me?"

Londo stopped and tried with a gesture to shut him up, but it doesn't work. Vir simply continued to rant, regardless of who might have overheard them.

"To have G'Kar imprisoned or killed just to – to elevate your position?" he asked accusingly.

Now the Centaury ambassador was getting truly angry. "You're young, Vir!" he snapped. "You don't understand, but you will!"

With that, Londo continued down the corridor. Vir puffed under his breath for a while to vent a little steam before he could bring himself to follow. But in the end, he did follow – as always. Unlike any other people who had ever anything to do with Londo Mollari, his devotion seemed to be unwavering.

As soon as they were both gone, one of the guardsmen standing at the door of Minister Virini's quarters left his post and hurried off in the opposite direction.

That left Rastenn with a difficult choice. He could go to the former Narn ambassador and warn him that whatever ambassador Mollari planned was a trap. Or he could follow Londo and Vir and try to figure out _what_ it was exactly that Londo planned. What little he had heard didn't sound good – and if Vir was so upset about it, perhaps Rastenn didn't know half of it yet.

Deciding that more detailed knowledge would give him a better opinion to make the right choice, Rastenn followed the two Centauri, careful to remain covered all the time.

* * *

The official dinner, organized by Ivanova, had been set up in the middle of the chapel, with Brother Theo's consent, meaning that the leader of Babylon 5's Cistercian monks was also present. Sheridan seemed to have recovered a little from his exhaustion and welcomed his guests with genuine delight. Delenn and Ivanova, sitting on his left and right, respectively, exchanged satisfied little grins, seeing that their plan to dig him away from his concerns for a while has worked out quite nicely.

The senior officers of _Voyager_ had chosen to come in civilian garb, which offered the Babylon 5 crowd fascinating insights into the clothing fashion of an alternate future Earth. Captain Janeway looked particularly elegant in her cream-coloured, three-piece trouser suit, with the matching silk blouse, and her long hair in a loose French twist. Commander Chakotay in light grey looked equally appropriate, although, as Lieutenant Paris commented, that kind of high-collared suit jacket he was wearing had been out since the 22nd century. Paris himself came in a Hawaii shirt that was so brightly coloured that it hurt the eyes, and Lieutenant Torres was wearing something matching in style while a lot less colourful. Young Ensign Kim was clad in a rather traditional fashion, like Chakotay, and seemed to feel a little out of his element among all those high-ranking officers.

The senior staff of Babylon 5 – wearing their black uniform – looked like a flock of ravens next to them... with the sole exception of Lillian Hobbs, who adamantly refused to come to dinner in uniform. Especially as this whole issue had ruined her long-planned date.

"Private life isn't something we'd have a lot of on Babylon 5," she explained, pushing in the wheelchair of Marcus, who'd put on his Ranger uniform to honour the event.

Harry and B'Elanna – who was still recovering from the thorough dressing down she'd received from Chakotay and was avoiding the executive officer's looks as well as she could – promptly made place for the Ranger between the two of them. They were eager to learn more about the fine points of a Ranger's life; Harry out of romantic interest, B'Elanna because she wanted to compare them with the life in the Maquis.

Sheridan introduced Brother Theo to the _Voyager_ officers, explaining them that the old monk was the one who was coordinating the gathering of vital information back on Earth, with the help of his fellow clerics from several different confessions.

"His work is of the greatest value for us," Babylon 5's captain added. "With all our ties with EarthGov cut off, and ISA putting out nothing but propaganda, we can't get reliable news about what's going on on Earth."

"I assume EarthGov propaganda doesn't speak too friendly about you," Chakotay said from where he was sitting next to Dr. Hobbs.

"No," Ivanova replied darkly. "Usually, they say that we're a bunch of renegades… or, better yet, that we're pirates and traitors, working with aliens to subvert Earth."

"And people are actually buying that crap?" Paris asked, his sympathies clearly lying with the Babylon 5 crowd. It didn't surprise anyone who'd known him for a while. He did have his own problems with authorities, starting right away with his father.

"Well, the fact that they've fired on their own ships might have to do something with _that_," Janeway commented.

"We didn't start it," Sheridan said tiredly. "They were the ones who fired at us first; the ones who tried to take over the station and give it to Night Watch and other paramilitary organizations to use it for their own purposes, regardless of the wishes – or the safety – of a quarter million people living here… most of whom aren't even human."

"I understand that," Janeway replied. "I'm not sure the average Earth citizen does, though. Especially when they're not given the whole truth."

"Just like the average Starfleet officer doesn't understand why the Maquis don't accept the Federations/Cardassian treaty in our time," Chakotay pointed out. "All they know is that there was a treaty that had _finally_ ended the hostilities with Cardassia – and now some insignificant border zone colonies are endangering it… and the peace of the entire Federation."

Janeway shot him an exasperated look. "This is not exactly the same, Commander!"

Chakotay didn't even flinch under her reproving glare. "Looks pretty similar to me, Captain," he replied. "But that is _our_ problem, and irrelevant right now, as we, too, are efficiently cut off from home."

"For the moment, perhaps," Janeway said. "But I'm still hoping that he… how do you call it? That mysterious construction under the surface of Epsilon 3?"

"The Great Machine," Ivanova supplied helpfully.

Janeway nodded. "Yes, thank you. I hope it would be able to open for us a way home, as soon as things have calmed down here."

"So do I," Chakotay said. "I want to get home as much as you do, Captain. But I'm afraid things won't be calming down here quite yet."

"No, I don't think so, either," Brother Theo said, his usually so jovial, round face darkening with concern. "At least no on Earth. The real problem back home is that folks have been conned into thinking they can't change the world. That they have to accept what is."

"But isn't that what priests have preached for over two thousand years?" Harry Kim, who happened to be a practicing Christian, asked in confusion. "That we have to take everything from God's hand with gratitude and grow under the burden?"

Brother Theo gave him a reproving look.

"If that would be the essence of Christian beliefs, young man, our Lord would not have died on the cross," he replied tartly. "But He knew that the world is changing every day; and that we need to change with it. Because if we allow others to do all the changes, we will be responsible for the direction those changes take. Even if we had only been sitting on the sideline and watching."

"And that is only the situation back on Earth," Sheridan added. "We'll have to deal with that, eventually. But our first, most urgent concern right now are the Shadows."

"I heard they are on the move already," Chakotay said. "I assume you are certain that sooner or later they will be targeting the station, too."

Sheridan nodded. "The problem is, their tactic just doesn't make any sense," he said. "They keep attacking random targets, in a completely illogical manner. I can't find any pattern in their attacks. It's… it's frustrating!"

"I'm sure it is," Chakotay said. "What happens once they are engaged?"

Sheridan shrugged helplessly. "_Then_ their tactics are very successful… not to mention devastating. It's a contradiction."

"Perhaps," Chakotay allowed. "Perhaps those random attacks are logical in some way, though, and you just haven't yet figured out how."

"That is exactly what I told him when I found him sitting in the war room, thinking logically about illogical possibilities," Delenn declared with twinkling eyes.

"Or thinking illogically about logical possibilities," Ivanova added.

The two women exchanged sly grins again, congratulating each other for the obvious success of this particular evening.

"Perhaps what you need is a fresh perspective, Captain," Ivanova continued; then he turned to Chakotay. "Commander, Garibaldi tells me that you used to lead seminars in advanced tactical training for Starfleet officers once. Is that true?"

"That was years ago," Chakotay replied, "and in a very different context of galactic powers. But yes, it is true."

"You did?" Sheridan asked, his interest suddenly piqued. "Would you mind to go through the intel with me then? Perhaps Susan is right and a fresh perspective _will_ be helpful."

"I can't guarantee anything," Chakotay replied with a shrug. "I'm not very familiar with the situation. But we can give it a try."

"Commander," Janeway intervened, disapproval clear in her voice, "I thought we agreed not to interfere with the natural development of history in this universe."

"No, Captain," Chakotay corrected. "We agreed not to take sides in the internal conflict within the Earth Alliance, and I still stand to that. But I can't just lean back and watch as these… these Shadow things flatten entire planets and massacre helpless people by the millions, if there is the slightest chance to help prevent genocide. I'm sorry, but that just wouldn't do."

"The Prime Directive…" Janeway began, but Chakotay cut her off.

"…doesn't apply here. We're not speaking about some primitive pre-Warp civilization here… although, frankly, I've always found it horribly hypocritical to leave such cultures without help because the Prime Directive. This is a situation no Starfleet regs can give us clear guidelines how to handle it. This place… this reality might very well become the only one we'll know fort he rest of our lives. And that makes it our responsibility, too."

Janeway shook her head. "I can't condone this, Chakotay."

"By all due respect, Captain, you can't prevent me from doing so, either," Chakotay replied, now a bit more forcefully himself. "You can throw me out of _Voyager_, of course; but I think you know as well as I do that in that case I won't be leaving alone."

Janeway stared at him as if he'd hit her in the face – and quite hard, at that.

"Chakotay, why are you doing this?" she asked, visibly shaken. "I thought we had an understanding."

"We did – and we still do," Chakotay answered. "I'm sorry if you have to believe that every time I disagree with you I'm turning _against_ you. I am not. But there are certain things I can't allow to happen with good conscience – and _not_ helping all those endangered people is one of those things. I might not be able help much; I might not be able to help at all. But I have at least to try – or I won't be able to look into the mirror anymore."

There was a long, tense silence around the dinner table; the Babylon 5 people realizing that this was a conflict between captain and executive officer that had been a long time coming, and that the confrontation might be changing a great many things in _Voyager_'s command structure. Finally, Sheridan cleared his throat and asked with forced brightness.

"By the way, where the hell is Garibaldi? I thought he wanted to join us for dinner – if only to criticize the skills of the cook from the vantage point of a self-declared gourmet chef."

"That I had," the security chief replied, coming through the door just on clue, "but I was delayed… by G'Kar."

"Oh?" Delenn frowned; G'Kar's actions, despite the Narn's unwavering loyalty to their alliance, could be somewhat… eccentric at times. "What did he want from you?"

"Oh, nothing major, just a little favour," Garibaldi slumped onto the empty chair next to Ivanova and eyed the presented dishes with a suspicious eye. "He needed something smuggled into the Narn homeworld, that's all."

"And what would _that_ be?" Sheridan asked, clearly a little worried. "I hope not some weapons of mass destruction. Another Narn-Centauri war would be the last thing we could use right now; not to mention that the Narns wouldn't have a rat's chance in an open confrontation."

"Nah," Garibaldi replied; then he took a spoon and began to eat rather speedily as if he'd wanted to catch up with the others who were already at the second course. "Just himself."

* * *

Rastenn had no difficulties following Vir to the transport tube undetected. The young aide was upset and distracted and obviously paid his surroundings very little attention. He didn't even give the Centauri guardsman already in the car as much as a glance when shuffling in.

Rastenn, on the other hand, did recognize the guard as the same one who'd been standing at Minister Virini's door just a few moments ago and didn't believe in a coincidence for a second. He didn't like how this was going; and even less so when he spotted the communicator in the guard's hand, and how the man was fingering a button in the very moment Vir joined him.

This looked awfully like a trap, but Rastenn knew he wouldn't be able to rush into the transport tube in time. He needed to find another option.

Very few people knew about the emergency stairways of Babylon 5, hidden in the maintenance tunnels, but they _did_ exist, of course. Maintenance crews _had_ to get from one level to another in case the transport system was malfunctioning, Fortunately for Rastenn, the spies of the Star Raiders had not only mapped all those stairways years ago, the data he'd secretly copied in Sheridan's office two weeks ago had also contained the access codes for the maintenance crews, and he had both maps and access codes imprinted into his near-perfect memory.

Taking the educated guess that Vir was returning to his own quarters, Rastenn took the closest such stairway and rushed to the right Green level. He found it an unusual way of getting from here to there – not to mention tiring – but he was a warrior; and he was young. He could do this.

And in fact, he _almost_ made it in time. He arrived in the very moment when Vir stepped out of the car – just to see four dishevelled types rush him back into the car, right into the grasp of the guardsman. The tube doors closed behind them at once.

Rastenn hit the bulkhead in anger and sheer frustration. He only missed them by ten seconds or so! Then he took a few deep breaths to calm down. If he wanted to help Vir, he needed to think.

The four types seemed like the usual folks who populated DownBelow – people who had come to Babylon 5 in the hope to find their luck… and failed. The humans called them "lurkers", and it was a known fact that they would do just about anything for money.

So the question was – who could have hired them in the first place?

Rastenn let the events of the last hour go through his head again and believed to have found the only possible answer: Lord Refa. The Centauri nobleman had visited Babylon 5 repeatedly during the previous months, and it was no secret that he and Ambassador Mollari were embittered rivals. Considering Lord Refa's high position in the court of Emperor Cartagia, it was not hard to determine which one had had the luckier hand lately.

However, the short argument Rastenn had overheard between Vir and his employer revealed that the ambassador must have found a way to elevate his position in the Royal Court again – most likely to Refa's disadvantage. That was something Lord Refa would _not_ like. But to thwart Londo's plans, he had to know _what_ exactly those plans were, had he not?

The key to this knowledge was obviously Vir. Vir, who was privy to most of his employer's plotting and planning… and who was unwaveringly loyal to the scheming ambassador.

In Rastenn's opinion, that was an admirably loyalty wasted on an unworthy person, but if Lennier was right, Vir obviously considered it the calling of his hearts to take care of Londo Mollari, and who was _he_ to interfere with someone else's calling?

Which did not mean that he would be sitting idly and letting the idealistic young Centauri – and was _that_ not a contradiction in itself? – getting killed, or at least seriously hurt, as a result of said misplaced royalty. He was gong to rescue Vir… if he could only find him in time.

As it stood beyond doubt for him that Lord Refa had been behind Vir's abduction, the courtier would probably want to speak to the young aide – preferably somewhere private. Rastenn went to the next computer terminal to find out where Lord Refa's quarters were. That was where he would start; and hopefully, Refa would lead him to the place where Vir was being kept.

* * *

Garibaldi's casual declaration about G'Kar's plans caused a mild shock by Babylon 5's command staff.

"Is he bloody insane?" Marcus demanded. "There's a standing warrant for his arrest back on Narn. If he goes home, he'll be stuck in prison – if he's very, _very_ lucky. Shot at first sight would be more likely, in fact."

"I told him the same thing," Garibaldi shrugged, "but he didn't listen – nobody ever does. All he said was that he had to go, no matter what the risks were."

"Why?" Ivanova asked incredulously.

Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "I have no idea! 'A personal matter', he said. He left half an hour ago."

"For Narn?" Sheridan asked with a frown. "What ship would still choose that route since the planet has practically been levelled by the Centauri?"

"The Rangers can bring him in quietly," Marcus said, "and wait for him in a hidden place until he returns. It is doable. But once there, he would be on his own. We are not allowed to interfere."

"You guys can really smuggle him in?" Tom Paris looked at the Ranger with newly born respect. "That would require some damn fine piloting, if the reports I've seen so far are accurate – and a great deal of madness to try doing so in the first place."

"We are Rangers," Marcus quoted the Anla'shok mantra with a shrug and a smile. "We walk in the dark places no others will enter. We stand on the bridge and no one may pass! We live for The One! We die for The One," he added, smiling at Delenn, who smiled back at him.

"Yeah, but do you have to die stupidly?" Paris grumbled, the cynic in him not quite buying into the whole Ranger philosophy.

"Stupidity," Marcus replied in a dignified manner, although his eyes were twinkling, "is entirely a matter of perspective. One person's madness is another person's great revelation."

"But most likely the same madness anyway," Brother Theo commented, and everyone laughed.

"Speaking of which," Brother Theo added, "we have a delegation of the True Gospel Mission Baptist Church visiting right now; in truth, they were the ones smuggling in all those data crystals from home. They wish to offer an open church service for everyone who might be interested – to show the aliens a more… joyous alternative of Christian beliefs, as they said."

"You wouldn't mind…?" Sheridan asked. Brother Theo was a useful ally whom he didn't want to antagonize.

The old monk shrugged. "The chapel is for everyone, and far be it from me to prevent any interested aliens from getting the shock of their lives," he replied. "You might want those of sensitive hearing to take earplugs with them, though. Members of this particular church interpret the Scripture's encouragement of "making a joyful noise unto the Lord' quite literally I'm afraid."

Everyone laughed again. It was hard not to do so. Bother Theo had an almost infectious way to take everything with a pinch of good humour.

"Well, I think it's a good idea," Sheridan said. "We all can use a little joy right now, even if it's the… erm… _noisy_ version of it. What about your crew, Captain?" he looked at Janeway. "Would they like to attend, too? We're a little tight for space right now, but if they use the chapel, a few dozen people more won't count, I think."

"Some of the human crew would doubtlessly want to," Janeway said thoughtfully, and so would I, to be honest. It would be a taste of home – something we haven't had for over two years."

"Your homes must be fairly noisy places, then" Brother Theo commented sarcastically – then he flashed at her a grandfatherly smile. "But you'll be most welcome, of course. The service will take place tomorrow, at twenty hundred hours."

"I can take over Gamma shift, Captain," Chakotay offered. "I assume Tuvok would find such a ceremony… fascinating."

It was the _Voyager_ crew's turn to burst out in laughter now; their hosts exchanged blank looks.

"Never mind," Paris chuckled. "You'll understand once you've spent more time in the company of Vulcans." He looked at Chakotay in askance. "And you really don't want to be there, Commander? No nostalgic feelings whatsoever?"

"I'm not from Earth to begin with," Chakotay reminded him, "and I'm not even nominally Christian. I can take my spirit walk whenever or wherever I want. You go; you'll need it more than I do."

"Well, if you think so," Paris said doubtfully.

Chakotay nodded. "I do."

"We should get back to _Voyager_, then," Janeway said. "It's getting late, and most of us are on Alpha shift tomorrow."

"Which means – what exactly?" Sheridan inquired.

"It's the first duty shift of the day, which is from oh-six-hundred to fourteen hundred hours," Harry explained readily. "Usually, the senior officers are on duty during alpha shift, with one replacement crewmember each, in case of emergencies. Beta shift is from fourteen hundred to twenty hundred, and Gamma shift is the dog watch – it lasts all night."

"Ensign, I don't believe Captain Sheridan wanted such a detailed answer," Janeway said. She didn't add that the duty roster of the ship was not the business of outsiders, but the warning was clear enough.

Harry blushed in embarrassment. Even after more than two years in the Delta Quadrant, he sometimes turned back into an over-eager cadet. As Paris had put once, he just couldn't stop babbling, and although he knew Tom hadn't meant it to be a reprimand, he also knew that it was a habit he had to break eventually.

"There's nothing wrong with a detailed answer," Marcus intervened smoothly on his behalf. "Details are good – they make senior officers happy. Especially when ordered neatly in a properly written report. Fortunately, the Rangers are not required to fill in written reports," he added, and the others grinned involuntarily.

"That's it: you belong back to the MedLabs," Dr. Hobbs declared sternly. "You're having too good a time – it can't be healthy for your recovery."

The others laughed again. Harry and B'Elanna offered to help wheeling Marcus back to his sick room, but Chakotay waved the offer away.

"I'll do it," he said. "Dr. Hobbs and I have things to discuss anyway."

Sheridan glanced at the lady doctor who looked particularly lovely in her prune-coloured skirt and jacket, and realized for the first time that there was something going on. He broke into a grin that nearly split his face in two.

"_Discussing_ things; that's what they call it nowadays?" he drawled. "I must definitely lack a private life being so far behind the current vernacular in euphemisms. Well, have a good time, you two."

"Thank you, Captain, I'll do my best," Chakotay replied, completely unfazed. Then he looked at Janeway. "I'll see you on the bridge, Captain, around the end of your shift.

Janeway nodded in agreement, and shortly thereafter the _Voyager_ officers left the chapel to return to their ship, Lillian and Chakotay were the next to leave, pushing Marcus' wheelchair in front of them.

"They'd make a nice couple," Garibaldi commented. "Too bad that the whole thing has no future – what, with them belonging to different universes and stuff."

But Brother Theo shook his head thoughtfully. "Who knows, Mr. Garibaldi, who knows…? Our Lord leads us on strange paths sometimes. Well, good night, everyone. I still have Compline to pray with my brethren, and tomorrow there will be more work."

* * *

In the diplomatic area of Green Sector, Rastenn of the Star Riders was hiding in a maintenance tunnel opposite Lord Refa's quarters and waited, with the patience only a sphinx – or a very determined Minbari – could maintain.

~TBC~


	5. Chapter 5

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

I was a bit surprised how easily Vir seemed to have gotten over the forced telepathic scan in "And the Rock Cried Out, No Hiding Place" – and frankly, I'm not buying it. He ought to have been much worse for the wear afterwards. So I'm trying for a more realistic approach here.

The word _brachiarti_ (sing. _brachiarte_) for the Centauri tentacles is the invention of the wonderful Andraste and first appeared in her story "Certamen". Credit be given where credit is due.

I pushed Tuvok's promotion a little further down on the _Voyager_ timeline, so he is already a Lieutenant Commander here. Not that a few months would truly matter, just to be mindful of canon.

**

* * *

**

PART 05

Rastenn's patience got rewarded after about twenty standard minutes; he got used to human time units, as Babylon 5 ran by them and it was easier than calculating the Minbari equivalent in his head all the time. Lord Refa left his quarters in the company of another Centauri, whom Rastenn recognized as a telepath – he had been trained to spot them – and clamped down his shields at once. While not a mind-reader himself, he was born with the latent ability to detect telepathic scans instantly; a useful trait that had been trained and nurtured all his life.

Now he understood Lord Refa's intentions. In his devoted loyalty to Londo, Vir might withstand physical torture till death. He looked soft, but he could be surprisingly resilient if he had to – Rastenn had already learned that much. So these two were going to rip his mind apart instead, take what they needed and then discard him like some broken, useless tool. It would save them time and ensure that Vir wouldn't be able to warn Londo.

Rastenn was _not_ going to let that happen, if he could help it. Mind-rape was detested among Minbari, although, to the shame of many among them, it _had_ been used during the war to gather much-needed information. But that had been in wartime, when their leaders had been truly desperate. For even though they had been winning the war, due to their low birth rates, the loss of life had taken a terrible toll on them as well. Ending the war – and quickly – had become very urgent after a while.

What Lord Refa was planning now, though, was utterly detestable. Vir was not his enemy – he was a good, decent, and ultimately harmless person. And yet he was being used ruthlessly as some sort of pawn, both by his employer _and_ the opposing faction. Rastenn found that outrageous. The weak should have been protected, not exploited. There was no honour in _that_ – although he began to suspect that the Centauri concept of honour was something no Minbari would agree with.

He didn't know what Londo had demanded from Vir, but he could take it from Vir's reaction that it must have been something the younger Centauri despised. Still, he would keep it secret, for Londo's sake – if he could. Such was the nature of his heart.

Unfortunately, the choice would not be his.

Rastenn let Lord Refa and the telepath pass his hiding place. Now that he had figures out what their intentions would be, he did not need to follow them too closely and risk being spotted. All telepaths were scanning their surroundings constantly, looking out for potential dangers – it was a light surface scan, similar to the manner non-telepaths were keeping their eyes and ears open, without consciously choosing to do so. But Rastenn's ability enabled him to track down an active telepath using that scan, and – unlike in the case of true telepathy – he didn't even need to be in a clear line of sight, as long as he did not put too much distance between himself and his target.

As soon as Lord Refa and his telepathic lackey vanished in the transporter cabin, Rastenn sprinted down the corridor, hot on their heels. Tearing off the housing of the control panel, he inserted a small tracking device into one of the free ports – similar to those the maintenance crews used during work – and prayed to Valen that no-one would come his way before he got what he needed.

After a few moments, the device indicated that the transport tube had halted on a level of Brown Sector where cheap, one-room temporary quarters were situated. An ideal place to remain unobtrusive while doing shady business. That made sense.

Rastenn removed the device, put the housing back to place and called the transport tube back. Now he knew where to look for Vir – and the Centauri telepath would lead him the rest of the way, without even knowing it. There was a certain poetic justice in that.

* * *

Ulkesh, ambassador of the Vorlon Empire on Babylon 5, was still seething in his quarters. After a fairly short time on the station, he had come to the conclusion that all these inferior specimen of the younger races had been tainted by the Shadows. How Kosh had not realized that fact was unfathomable.

Like many others in the Council, Ulkesh had opposed that the Vorlon fleet entered the war at this early phase. It had been well before proper time. The younger races should have proved their worthiness first. But Kosh had insisted, and since _he_ had been the one closest to the actual events, the others had finally given in.

It had been a terrible mistake.

Granted, they _had_ beaten the Shadow fleet – but at a very high price. Kosh had paid with his own life for that mistake – the first Vorlon to be killed for uncounted millennia – and nothing of him had survived. Absolutely nothing. That useless vessel of his, disguised as his human aide, had been out on some errand, and Kosh had nowhere to hide when the Shadows came for him.

Ulkesh had already punished the incompetent vessel, of course, and intended to keep punishing her. Severely. She had to learn that mistakes of this magnitude were _not_ tolerated from someone who had been granted the privilege to serve a Vorlon as his vessel. She still had long, hard lessons before her. Lessons she would not forget for till the end of her pathetically short life.

Right now, however, he could not reach the vessel. Those strangers from a chaotic, alien universe had taken her to their ship. Under normal circumstances that would not keep a Vorlon from getting whatever he wanted, but his previous encounter with the seemingly fragile alien creature had forewarned Ulkesh to be very careful.

He was not _afraid_ of the creature that she was now. She had caught him unaware last time; she would not have that advantage at their next encounter. But he could feel an incredible, almost limitless potential in her and feared that by breaking her fragile shell, he could unleash an uncontrollable wild power into _this_ universe; a power no-one might be able to tame.

The creature had no idea about her own powers. She did not seem to know that the shell she was wearing now was not her true, her ultimate form. That her strange race was so short-lived, even with the measure of other short-lived mortals, because it was merely a cocoon, meant to break up and release her true self one day.

Hers was a race unparalleled in this universe. Vorlons had needed a million years, as most younger races counted time, to evolve from their once corporeal form to the beings of pure energy that they had been for the last twenty or so millennia. This seemingly insignificant little race managed it in a mere nine years!

And even while in their mortal shell, they had incredible mental powers. Ulkesh had been given a taste of that already. It had _not_ been pleasant.

The irony was that they did not even know. During their brief struggle, he had read the girl's unprotected mind and learned that back home, they practically never used their abilities, and as a result, those powers were slowly drying up in them. They had such potential – and wasted it, vegetating in that ridiculous underground city of theirs, shut away by a visiting alien that had damaged the surface of their planet through ignorance.

Ulkesh would have loved to get his hands on the creature, metaphorically speaking. To take her to the homeworld, have her examined by the best scientists and bound her to his own kind. She could turn out a useful servant, if her powers were trained and carefully channelled.

But he could not make his move, not yet. There were other telepaths on that ship, strong and well-trained ones. He could not be sure he would be able to take them on, all together, and still emerge from the fight victorious. Especially as Kosh's rebellious vessel seemed to bond with them way too quickly.

Yes, he might be able to subdue them – but that would most likely require killing one or more of them. And while he was not above killing – in fact, he found the act strangely calming, if it served to restore order in a chaotic universe – it would have been a criminal waste. They could make useful servants, too, if dealt with properly. All he had to do was to wait for his kind to arrive.

Ulkesh, like all Vorlons, despised waste. It insulted his sense for order.

Besides, he had more urgent things to do at the moment. The Council had to be informed that Kosh had been wrong. That the younger races had been tainted by the Shadows, every single one of them. The Centauri were the worse, of course, allying themselves openly with the enemy, but the others weren't much better.

Even the humans of the station, who pretended to be against the forces of darkness, had used Shadow biotechnology to their advantage. Ulkesh could feel its presence. The individuals whose bodies harboured it were in cryogenic suspension somewhere in the MedLabs, but he could sense it, even in its dormant mode.

That was another problem he would have to deal with. Should those dark vessels ever be revived, he would have to go in by force and destroy them – if he could. Their ability to merge with any available technology made them extremely dangerous, even for a Vorlon.

Again, this was something that would better wait till the others arrived. For that, though, he had to send a message to the Council. Make the others realize that there might not be any other choice than end this circular conflict, once and forever.

It was a drastic step, one that both sides had avoided so far. Perhaps it was time to change that now. All the other players had long left the field – perhaps the field itself was no longer needed, either.

Lifting off from behind the half-transparent glass panel obscuring his resting place, Ulkesh returned into his encounter suit. It was time to pay his ship a visit.

* * *

Chakotay, true to his promise, helped Lillian to wheel a visibly tired Marcus Cole back to his sick room. MedLab was quiet and peaceful in this later hour. Thankfully, they had been no emergencies on the previous day, so there were no other patients at the moment. Dr. Maya Hernandez, a short, middle-aged doctor had night shift, assisted by a somewhat younger male Japanese med tech named Kiriyama.

Officially, Dr. Hernandez no longer belonged to the medical staff of Babylon 5; she had requested a reassignment to Io after two years, where he had worked with Dr. Kyle until his death. She'd been visiting when Babylon 5 had severed ties with EarthGov and stuck here. Sure, she could have left when the Night Watch people had been booted out, but decided that she was more needed here – a sentiment with which Lillian couldn't have agreed more. Especially after Dr. Franklin had left to go and find his lost self. She would have drowned in work otherwise.

"You look flustered, young man," Hernandez told Marcus sternly. "Too much fun apparently doesn't agree with your condition."

The Ranger made a long-suffering face and looked at Chakotay as if expecting support from him.

"Why do all doctors have to say _that_?" he complained. "Is this some kind of conspiracy to make the lives of their patients miserable?"

"Nonsense, _muchacho_," Dr. Hernandez patted his shoulder in a motherly manner. "Consider it simply payback for all the grief _you_ have given us every time you were in our care. Come now, Mr. Kiriyama will help you get ready for bed."

"I don't think I'll ever again _feel_ ready for bed," Marcus grumbled. "I'm sick and tired of this place."

"Trust me, it wasn't more fun for us, either," Lillian replied dryly. "Behave, and you might be allowed to leave in two days."

Marcus still seemed fairly unhappy with the idea to spend another night in MedLab, but allowed the med tech to take him to the bathroom. Lillian gave Dr. Hernandez a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Maya. You are a treasure. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Don't mention it," Dr. Hernandez smiled back at her. "You're the one who has to shoulder the most burdens here. Now, be gone, the two of you! Shoo! I'm sure you've got better things to do with the rest of your evening… whatever's still there of it."

Lillian admitted that it was indeed so, thanked her again and left MedLab, with Chakotay in tow. But she did not continue towards the docking bay where _Voyager_ had been placed. Instead, she glanced in the direction of Blue Sector where the quarters of station personnel were located.

"Chakotay, I was thinking," she said. "It's late, and I have to get out early tomorrow…"

"You want to cancel our evening?" Chakotay had a hard time to hide his disappointment; in truth, he doubted that he was very successful.

She gave him a heartbreaking smile. It was the same smile that had swept him away at the first time they'd met: during that blind date Sam Wildman had arranged for them, thinking they would be a good match.

"Oh, no!" she protested. "I just thought there wouldn't be enough time for what we've originally planned." She paused, then added a little shyly. "Perhaps you'd like to spend the night with me instead. In my quarters."

"I'd love to," Chakotay answered and felt a familiar, though almost forgotten heat beginning to pool in his belly. "I just… I don't want to rush things, you know. This… this is important…"

"I know," she said, still smiling. "And under normal circumstances, I would agree with you that we should take things slowly. But these are _not_ normal times, my heart; we don't have that luxury now. If we miss our chance tonight, who can tell whether we will get another one again? I don't want to die tomorrow or a day after, when the Shadows or EarthGov make their move against us, knowing that we could have had something beautiful but missed it because we were too afraid. Can you understand that?"

"Of course I can," Chakotay took her hand and kissed her palm.

She was still smiling at him, but those lovely, coffee-brown eyes of hers were shining with unshed tears. "Then give me this tonight. Please."

"Whatever you want; whenever you want," Chakotay replied, deeply touched by her artless honesty.

She nodded and squeezed his hand. "Come with me, then. I promise you, it _will_ be beautiful."

* * *

When Rastenn reached his destination, Lord Refa and his pet were nowhere to see, but he did not let that fact disturb him. He had taken the possibility into consideration. In truth, it was better so – he would not hesitate to beat up a Centauri nobleman to protect Vir, but it could have caused an unpleasant diplomatic scandal. Dealing with things more discretely was better for everyone involved.

Especially for poor Vir, who could have been accused of conspiring with the Minbari Warrior Caste against a member of the Royal Court – a capital offence that could have led to his execution. With the Centauri, one could not be careful enough. They practically lived for lies, betrayal, backstabbing and intrigues. How such an innocent creature as Vir had been able to survive among his own people so far was something Rastenn often wondered about.

As he looked down the corridor stretching out in front of his eyes, though, he was confronted with an unexpected problem: there were too many doors opening left and right. His gift, while useful, was not one hundred per cent reliable. He could feel the presence of the telepath _somewhere_ in this corridor, but he could not locate him more precisely. It could have been any of the three dozen rooms.

He took a deep breath and stomped down the short bout of panic. This was not the time for losing control. He was a warrior – he would find a solution. If he had to, he would open every single door; search every single room in this cursed corridor. He would find Vir, no matter what.

He only hoped it would not be too late by then.

The first couple of doors turned out to be uninteresting. He could hear human, Drazi, even Pak'ma'ra voices – well, _noises_ in the case of the Pak'ma'ra – through the closed doors. Unless Lord Refa was playing some falsified voice records during his investigation, Vir had to be somewhere else.

The next few rooms were quiet – either empty or their occupants were absent or already asleep. In theory, Lord Refa could have used a white noise generator, of course, but that was rather unlikely. Firstly, it would have hindered _him_ in hearing anything from the outside, and secondly, he would have needed to know in advance that he would require one. One could not simply by such things on the Zocalo at the whim of his heart.

So Rastenn decided that Vir would not be in any of those quiet rooms and moved on with his search-and-rescue mission. There were still depressingly many possibilities before him – he had been searching this corridor for fifteen minutes already, and in a quarter of an hour a skilled telepath could do horrible things to a mind as unprotected as Vir's was.

Rastenn gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue methodically. Patience had never been his forte, but he knew he could not afford to overlook any possible hints.

In the end, however, it was sheer dumb luck that helped him. He could hear the heavy steps of booted feet from afar, and soon, two Centauri guardsmen marched by him, both at least two heads taller than him and twice his width. They wore the insignia of the Royal Court, and Rastenn recognized one of them as Vir's abductor.

They paid the Minbari wearing the modest brown robe of the Worker Caste no attention at all – a common mistake of soldiers serving in noble houses. One that came in handy right now. Rastenn pretended to have just left one of the supposedly empty rooms and strolled slowly after them, as if going after his own business.

Nine doors further down the corridor, the two guardsmen stopped, and Vir's abductor signalled someone with his communicator. The door opened without any questions being asked from within, and the two guards vanished behind it.

Rastenn gritted his teeth again. Now he knew where to find Vir, but it did not help him much. He could easily beat the guards in hand-to-hand combat – Centauri soldiers relied on brutal strength rather than skill and usually underestimated opponents half their size – but they had shotguns with them, and so did, most likely, Lord Refa. Vir could get killed in the crossfire if Rastenn tried to force his way into the room.

No; he needed the element of surprise to fulfil his mission. With the proper scanning device, he could have stored and reproduced the signal from the guardsman's communicator and be let in as a possible co-conspirator. Unfortunately, he did not have such a tool among the useful little things he carried in his Worker Caste tool belt. He had to think of something else – and quickly. Who knew what those oversized apes were doing with poor Vir while he was wasting his time here?

Luck came to his aid again. Just a few minutes later, that door opened again, and out strolled Lord Refa, with an eminently satisfied expression on his unpleasant face, his telepath in tow. One of the guardsmen – the one who had orchestrated Vir's abduction – stepped out with them and remained standing at the door.

"Watch him closely," the Centauri nobleman instructed the guard, "but don't kill him just yet. He might provide more useful information – he's Mollari's only confidant, after all."

There could be no more doubt that Vir was indeed kept in that room… and Lord Refa had just eased Rastenn's way in. Folding his hands, the young Minbari bowed respectfully to the nobleman who did not waste as much as a fleeting glance at him, and then continued his way towards Vir's temporal prison.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to the guard, while removing the closed _denn'bok_ from his tool belt; "but I always wanted to learn more about these helmets of yours. The design is intricate – does it serve any other purpose than protection?"

The guardsman looked down at the small, seemingly simple Minbari as if he were a rat or some other lower life form.

"Get lost, little troll," he growled. "I have no time to play with you."

"That is unfortunate," Rastenn glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Refa his and entourage were gone; then he made a step back to create more space for his next move. "It would have been less painful for you. But it is your choice."

He squeezed the middle piece of the _denn'bok_, and the pike sprang to full length. Grabbing it with both hands for maximum effect, he whirled around, and before the dumbfolded guard could have reacted, he delivered a stunning blow at the man's midsection, right where the _brachiarti_ – the tentacle-like male organs of a Centauri – were wrapped around his torso when not in use. Then he made an upward twist with the pike and rammed one end into the man's throat with brutal force.

The big man went down as if struck by lightning, and Rastenn smiled in grim satisfaction. It paid out having studied the anatomy of alien species. That was one down, another one to go. He opted for the direct approach with that one and began to bang on the door loudly with his pike.

The other guard came out angrily to see what the ruckus was about. He barely spotted his fallen comrade when the end of the _denn'bok_ connected with his face; the sickening crunch of shattered bones could probably be heard up to the C&C. Rastenn kicked the body out of his way and went in, _denn'bok_ at the ready, in case there were any further guards within.

There were none. Only a bruised and dishevelled Vir, slumped on a chair in the middle of an otherwise empty room, and sobbing like a child, hand pressed against his mouth, as if he were ashamed for it.

Rastenn leaned over him and shook him gently. "Vir? Vir, can you hear me? It's me, Rastenn."

Vir was sobbing too hard to give any articulate answer. He just nodded repeatedly, his haircrest trembling with the intensity of the gesture.

"All right," Rastenn said. "Listen, we need to get you out of here. I have knocked out the guards, but that would not help us much should Lord Refa decide to come back with more of them. Come on… can you stand?"

"I… I think so," Vir hiccupped. He accepted Rastenn's help and tried to get to his feet. It was not an easy task, but with much support from Rastenn, he finally managed – only to sway on his feet dangerously.

Rastenn adjusted Vir's arm over his shoulder, grabbed the young Centauri around the waist and dragged him out of the room, towards the transport tube. He had to take the still sobbing Vir to MedLab, but he knew it would be hard. He was strong, but Vir was heavy – and currently dead weight in his arms.

"Vir, pull yourself together!" he said sternly. "I can't carry you all the way – you are too heavy for me. We need to reach the transport tube; after that, we will be reasonably safe."

"I… I'll try," Vir was making heroic efforts to keep up with him. Rastenn could only hope that it would be enough.

* * *

Ulkesh stood in Docking Bay 13 and stared at his ship in disbelief. He had tried to reach the ship through their special link – after all, it was part of him; had been for millennia, and it had never happened before that it would shut him out so completely. It was, at least in theory, impossible. The ship was under his control; it had been _grown_ to be his servant, his companion… his _vessel_ on the long journeys among the start. It was its very _purpose_.

On the other hand, the ship was _alive_ – and sentient. It did have its own will, to a certain, limited extent. Also, it was old, almost as old as he was. It could learn, develop new skills. He had never taken that possibility into consideration. Apparently, it had been a mistake.

Still, he needed the ship to get away from the station; to seek out the fleet and deliver his report to the Council. He could have forced it to obey – it was well within his powers, and ultimately, the ship would have no other choice than do his bidding – but a deep disturbance in their semi-symbiotic relationship could have proved fatal later. So he formed a question and sent it along their link. He needed to know what the ship wanted.

The answer came instantly. It was a single image: that of the powerful little creature, standing in front of the ship, staring at it with wide, curious eyes. For the ship, she was a melody in the great music of things it had never encountered before. Something new. Something fresh. Something unknown and infinitely interesting.

For a moment, the ancient Vorlon could barely comprehend the fact that his equally ancient ship was actually _sulking_ because he had not allowed it to learn more about the creature. Yet it was apparently so. And if he wanted the ship's unlimited cooperation, he had to make certain allowances.

Perhaps it would prove useful, in the end. _He_ was interested in the creature as well, and she seemed to be drawn to the ship. It could be a beginning.

_Deliver the message_, he sent alone the link. _I might allow contact later._

For a while, there was no answer. Then finally, reluctantly, the ship signalled its consent.

* * *

Marcus was still awake when Rastenn stormed into MedLab, practically carrying a completely broken Vir. The Ranger had been suffering from insomnia for some time and usually spent half the night with reading, the enforced lack of physical activity having disturbed his sleep patterns. So he was the first to see them come in and was fairly shocked by the state in which Vir was. He could only see them from afar, through the glass wall, but that was enough.

He knew the doctors would be mad at him, but he just _had_ to know what happened. Carefully, slowly, he got out of bed and made his way into the examination room where Dr. Hernandez was already hurrying towards the newcomers.

"Mr. Cotto," the doctor asked in concern. "What happened to you?"

Vir was still sobbing uncontrollably, so it was Rastenn who answered, making Marcus wonder how _he_ had gotten involved into the whole mess.

"He had been subjected to a forced telepathic scan," he said. "I do not know how deep it was, but it had to be bad. I found him in this state in Brown Sector."

_And just what were __you__ doing there?_ Marcus thought, suspecting that Neroon had left his nephew behind to gather information, among other things. He decided not to interfere, though. Not _yet_.

"I'll alert Mr. Garibaldi," the doctor was already turning to the comm unit, but Rastenn stopped her with a raised hand.

"Please, _Hela'mer_, do not. This is an… unfortunate episode of internal Centauri politics; he would have no jurisdiction in the matter. Besides," he added dryly, "it could get _me_ into trouble. I had to remove certain… obstacles from the way to got Vir out."

"Are those _obstacles_ dead?" Marcus asked, finally reaching the door, although not without some effort. If yes, that would cause even more trouble. The Centauri did not take it lightly if someone killed their people – not even in defence of one of their own. _Especially_ not in defence of one of their own.

Rastenn honoured him with a short, warrior-style bow – both fists pressed to his chest – while Dr. Hernandez helped Vir onto an examination table.

"Anla'shok Cole," he said in polite recognition. "No, I do not think they are dead. It was not my wish to kill them. I just wanted to get Vir out safely."

"Why?" Marcus asked in a clipped tone that would have made a warrior Alyt proud.

Rastenn shrugged. "He is a friend," he replied simply. "Besides, Lord Refa ordered the guards to keep him for further investigation. I have little doubt that he would have been… removed afterwards."

"Refa," Marcus repeated slowly. "That doesn't sound good."

"No, it does not," Rastenn agreed. "I do not know what kind of political game Ambassador Mollari and Lord Refa are playing, but I did not want Vir to get killed as collateral damage."

"It would be a shame indeed," Marcus nodded. "He is a decent guy." Then he looked at Dr. Hernandez. "How's she doing, Doc?"

"Physically, he is not too badly hurt," the doctor answered, injecting Vir with something. "The bruises are fairly superficial. His mental state, on the other hand… I don't know what I could do for him, other than sedate him heavily to calm him down. For the rest, we'd need the help of a psychiatrist, or that of a skilled telepath. Only that we don't have any of those on Babylon 5."

"What about Lyta Alexander?" Marcus asked.

Dr. Hernandez shook her head. "Still recovering aboard _Voyager_. Mr. Tuvok taught her some Vulcan healing method that seems to help a great deal, but it also renders her unconscious for the time being."

"Then _Voyager_ it is where we should take Vir," Marcus suggested. "They have advanced medical technology… _and_ they have telepaths. Strong ones, according to what I have heard."

"Perhaps, but will they be willing to help?" the doctor asked doubtfully. "Their captain has a very isolationist attitude."

"Which is the reason why I'm going to ask someone else," Marcus looked at the med tech. "Mr. Kiriyama, would you mind to fetch my belt pouch for me? It would save us time."

"Sure," the med tech nodded and returned with the item in question a moment later.

Marcus took one of those arrowhead-shaped brooches the _Voyager_ people used as communicator from the pouch and activated it. "_Voyager_, this is Marcus Cole from Babylon 5. I'd like to speak with Mr. Tuvok, please."

"Tuvok here," a calm, precisely accentuated male voice replied almost immediately. "How can I be of assistance, Mr. Cole?"

"It depends," Marcus said. "Are you trained to deal with victims of a forced telepathic scan?"

"Yes," the Vulcan replied simply. "All Vulcans in Starfleet are, to a certain extent, in case members of the crew suffer a telepathic attack. How deep is the damage?"

"We don't know," Marcus admitted. "That is why we need your help."

There was a moment of silence while the Vulcan considered his options, and Marcus began to worry, knowing how adverse Captain Janeway was to her crew getting involved in the matters of the station. On the other hand, he had been told that Vulcans considered life every bit as sacred as Minbari did, so there was still hope.

"Very well," Tuvok finally said. "I will be soon needed in Sickbay anyway, so I can take a look at your victim. Is he human?"

"No," Marcus said. "Centauri. Would that be a problem?"

"Not at all," the Vulcan replied. "Medical information concerning Centauri has already been downloaded into our databases. I shall have Kes consult them briefly before I do anything. She will know what to look for. Can your victim walk on his own?"

"Barely," Marcus said.

"Give him the comm badge, then," the Vulcan instructed, "so that the transporter room can get a lock. I shall have him beamed directly to Sickbay."

"Not without me," Rastenn said. "He will need a familiar face when he comes out of shock."

"That is acceptable," the Vulcan answered. "I will be in Sickbay in approximately four point six two minutes. Tuvok out."

By now, many of the Babylon 5 personnel knew what a particle transporter was and had been informed about the basics of its working. Dr. Hernandez was still a little anxious about her patient, though.

"Is that not dangerous?" she asked Marcus.

The Ranger shrugged. "No more than any other technology _we_ use on a daily basis. In _Voyager_'s universe, it has been used for more than two hundred years, and I'm told that accidents are extremely rare."

"And this Tuvok person… do you think he'll be able to help Mr. Cotto?" Hernandez asked. "Is he a doctor at all?"

"No," Marcus replied. "But he is an old, strong and experienced telepath. I've heard stories how he'd saved Lieutenant Paris from getting insane and dying from a telepathic programme that had been planted into his mind by an alien species, so yeah, I think he could help Vir." He looked at the digital clock embedded into the bulkhead. "Our four minutes are up. Rastenn, take the comm badge, and take hold of Vir, too. Good. Now push the badge."

Rastenn did as instructed. Marcus raised his voice just enough for the comm badge to catch it. "Marcus Cole to _Voyager_. Two to beam directly to Sickbay. Energize."

In the next moment, Vir and Rastenn were enveloped in the golden sparkling transporter beam and vanished from MedLab. Marcus looked at Dr. Hernandez and grinned.

"Wasn't that cool?" he asked. "I've wanted to say that since the day I saw them beam someone out for the first time. Never thought I'd get the chance, though."

* * *

"Regeneration cycle finished," the impersonal voice of _Voyager_'s main computer announced.

Seven of Nine opened her eyes and stepped out of the regeneration chamber with the elegance of a ballet dancer. She felt strangely unsatisfied… almost exposed. As if she had been watched during regeneration.

"Computer; has there been anyone else in this room during my regeneration cycle?" she asked.

"Negative," the artificial female voice answered.

That was odd. She usually did not suffer from delusions, yet she had the very strong feeling that someone _had_ been there with her in the room. Perhaps that Galen person knew a way to interfere with the internal sensors. To _that_, no so-called 'magic' was required… just a bit of advanced technology.

Nonetheless, it was time for a little investigation. She would find out who – or _what_ – this man named Galen was and what he wanted from her. She disliked unsolved questions. They were most dissatisfactory – and could prove dangerous.

She left the cargo bay and rode the turbolift to the bridge. To her surprise, she found Harry Kim sitting in the command chair.

"Ensign Kim," she greeted him coldly. "I thought this was Commander Tuvok's duty shift. Were you not invited to dinner with Captain Sheridan and his staff?"

"We've just gotten back," Harry explained, "and Tuvok's gone down to Sickbay. Ms. Alexander is expected to come out of that healing trance just about now."

"I see," Seven dismissed the topic as irrelevant. She had no interest in the telepath woman. "Since you are already here, Ensign, I will require your assistance."

"With what?" Harry asked in surprise. He was an operations officer and thus good with computer systems, but he really couldn't compare himself with Seven.

"I need to search the Babylon 5 database according to certain parameters," Seven answered. "You will assist me with that."

Harry rolled his eyes. "One of these days we're gonna teach you the significance of the world _please_ in human society," he said. "Very well; tell me what you need."

"I am looking for information about a human male named Galen," Seven replied. "Between thirty and forty, pale skin, bald head, very blue eyes. He was wearing a long black cloak and carried a staff, the purpose of which remains unknown. I want to know whether he – or others like him – have visited Babylon 5 before… and what they wanted here."

Harry shot her a curious look. "You met this guy while on the station? What did he do?"

Seven did not answer immediately, as if considering how much she should reveal to him.

"He asked me questions no-one had bothered to ask before," she finally said. "I found that… intriguing."

* * *

Vir and Rastenn materialized in what must have been the medical area of _Voyager_. Vir was so out due to the strong sedatives given him by Dr. Hernandez that he didn't entirely realize what was happening to him, just blinked owlishly. At least he had stopped crying.

Rastenn found the experience – strange at best. It had happened within seconds, and all that remained was a fleeting disorientation. He supposed that one could get used to it, given enough time; and he could not deny that it was a highly efficient way to get from here to there.

This being his first time aboard the strange Earth ship, he looked around with great interest, trying to imprint as many details into his memory as possible. They have landed in what seemed to be a treatment area. Three oddly-shaped beds – more akin Minbari sleeping platforms than the usual human beds he had seen so far – stood there, equipped with alien machinery the purpose of which he couldn't even guess. They were most likely diagnostic tables.

Through the glass wall, he could see a smaller room, in which an even more elaborately designed diagnostic bed stood. It had a cylindrical device arching above it, like some sort of clamshell – probably another diagnostic instrument – but was empty at the moment. It might be a surgery room or an intensive care area.

On the other side, with large windows looking to both treatment and surgery areas, was a small room that could only be the doctor's office, with a semi-circular, computerized desk, and beyond it further medical areas he could not see from his vantage point. Everything seemed streamlined, highly functional and aesthetically pleasing: clean forms and watercolours everywhere. Yes, this was a ship that would match even Minbari standards.

On one of the diagnostic beds Rastenn recognized Lyta Alexander, Babylon 5's resident telepath and aide of the Vorlon ambassador. She seemed unconscious and was treated by the dark-skinned, pointy-aired alien who Rastenn knew was the ship's security officer and a short, fragile, sprite-like girl, also with pointed ears, but those also had ridges.

It was the girl who turned around at hearing the whining of the transporter beam and came to great them.

"You are a little early," she said in a low-pitched, surprisingly mature voice, "Tuvok is still occupied. But we can run preliminary scans on the patient, if you can help me to get him seated; he is too heavy for me."

_That_ Rastenn could believe; she looked barely more than a child. So he helped her to steer Vir to a comfortable seat into which the young Centauri slumped in relief, utterly exhausted. The girl gave him a compassionate look.

"The doctor will take care of you in a moment," she promised. Then, raising her voice just a little, she said. "Computer, initiate Emergency Medical Holographic Program."

To Rastenn's mild shock, the image of a short, balding man blinked into life right after that, wearing a blue-and-black uniform. The man had an animated face and an almost manic gleam in his eyes.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," he said; then he recognized the girl and blinked. "Oh. Kes. What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"I am all right, Doctor, thank you," she replied in that kind voice of hers. "But we have a patient with possible neural damage from a forced telepathic scan."

"Oh," the obviously artificial man said. "Mind-rape. Where is the world going? Really, there seem to be no ethical rules anymore. Are you the patient?" he glared at Rastenn. "What are you standing around?"

"He's not the patient, Doctor," the girl, whose name was obviously Kes, steered the irritated physician towards Vir. "_He_ is."

"I see," the doctor grabbed some small, hand-held instrument from a nearby table and began to scan the young Centauri with it. "Preliminary scans show no neural damage, although his vitals are rather low at the moment."

"Well, he's not human…" the girl began tentatively. It earned her an irritated look from the doctor.

"I'm aware of _that_. Medical data about the main alien species of this universe have been downloaded into my database. I should have a _very_ serious malfunction to mistake a Centauri for a human!" he snapped.

"A _malfunction_?" Rastenn mouthed to the girl, confused.

She smiled at him. "The Doctor is a holographic program," she explained. "Self-aware, programmed with the knowledge of two hundred of the best Federation physicians…"

"…but, unfortunately, without any proper bedside manners," the blonde human male – the one Vir had cleared from unjust accusations right after _Voyager_'s arrival – added upon entering the room.

"Very funny, Mr. Paris," the doctor said acerbically. "May I ask what _you_ are doing here? Usually, you are not so eager to appear for a duty shift in Sickbay."

"Tuvok called me to assist him with Ms Alexander," Paris explained. "She's about to come out of the healing trance."

The doctor shrugged, clearly insulted. "I would be more than capable of assisting Mr. Tuvok."

"Yeah, but she wouldn't be able to sense anything from you, and for a telepath, especially a disoriented one, that is a frightening prospect," Paris replied; then he spotted Vir and his eyes widened. "Vir? What are _you_ doing here? Are you hurt?"

"Later, Tom," Kes interrupted. "You are needed with Ms Alexander right now. I will tell you everything later. I promise."

Paris looked from her at Vir, then back at her, and finally nodded. "All right. I'll hold you to that."

With that, he picked up the tricorder and hurried over to the biobed, where Tuvok was watching the instruments above Lyta Alexander's head.

"What is this healing trance they are speaking about?" Rastenn asked from the girl, but it was the doctor who answered, with a rapid-fire of detailed information.

"The Vulcan healing trance is a form of self-induced hypnosis used for healing damaged organs," he – _it_? – said. "It is a way to concentrate all one's strength, blood, and antibodies onto the injured organs. Vulcans use it all the time, but this is the first time I heard about anyone else being capable of entering it."

"Can she hear them?" Rastenn wondered, seeing that Tuvok was talking to the seemingly unconscious human telepath in low, even tones… too low even for his keen Minbari hearing to figure out the words. "She seems… well, out of it."

"Low bioreadings are normal during the trance," the doctor explained. "Actually, the subject remains semi-conscious during this time, even though there is no outward sign that they are. They know when people are near and also what is being said, but they can't afford to take their mind from the tissue which they're fighting to heal."

"And it works?" Rastenn asked doubtfully. "What if they do not wake up again?"

"That is a real danger with this technique," the doctor admitted. "When the bioreadings begin to fluctuate, which, in Ms Alexander's case, began about an hour ago, someone must be with the patient at all times. The injured person must wait until the last possible moment, and then fight their way back to consciousness. At the first sign of consciousness a trained physician should be called… or someone familiar enough with the technique to know what to do. Look, they're starting now," he added with great professional interest. Watch; it will be most educational."

With a fleeting glance at the completely indifferent Vir, Rastenn stepped just a little closer to the biobed, so that he could see better. Lyta Alexander's eyes were open, but she seemed not to react to her surroundings. Had something gone wrong?

The blond human scanned checked the readings on the screens above her head, nodded and said something to the Vulcan in a medical jargon Rastenn could not understand. Tuvok nodded, too, and together they brought Lyta into a sitting position. The human supported her back, trying to talk to her, but she still showed no reaction.

The Vulcan shook his head – then, to Rastenn's utter shock, he slapped her in the face. Hard. As she did not react, he slapped her again. And again,

Rastenn cried out in dismay and lunged to stop this, but the holographic doctor grabbed his arm. For a hologram, his grip was surprisingly solid… in fact, it was like a vice.

"Stand down," he said. "He's not harming her. He's trying to help her to come out of the trance."

"By hitting her?" Rastenn asked incredulously.

The doctor nodded. "Bringing a patient out of trance often includes striking them very hard since the pain helps them regain consciousness quickly. This is imperative since there is only a limited amount of time to regain consciousness once they enters this stage."

"It is still… barbaric," Rastenn murmured.

"Perhaps; but it is also very efficient," the doctor said. "Vulcans have been using this technique for millennia. Tuvok has taught Ms Alexander how to use it to speed up the healing process. Look!"

Rastenn looked and saw Lyta Alexander shook her head and become self-aware again.

"Thank you, Tuvok," she said quietly.

The Vulcan nodded. "You should rest," he said. "The healing trance has drained your strength. But you will be fully healed by tomorrow."

* * *

A few minutes – and a thorough scan – later Lyta was in bed again, sleeping deeply, and the two men returned to the others who were waiting in the front of the treatment area.

"She will be all right now," Paris said to the doctor. "The healing trance worked like a charm, hard as it is to believe. She will be up and running in no time."

"And now," the Vulcan added, "I will take a look at our other patient. However, for that, I will need privacy."

Rastenn shook his head. "That is out of question. Vir has just bee violated by a telepath. I will not leave him alone with another one. He will panic."

"He seems calm enough to me right now," Paris commented.

"Because he has already been given a strong sedative," Rastenn retorted. "He was trembling and sobbing uncontrollably when I found him."

Paris nodded in understanding. "He is traumatized. It's not surprising. But… excuse me, who the hell are _you_ again? I remember having seen you with him before."

"My name is Rastenn," the Minbari said. "I am his friend."

"Good, because after this, he will need all the friends he can find," Paris said grimly. "Look… Rastenn. I know what mind-rape is like. I had the pleasure myself. So trust me when I say that Tuvok can help him more quickly and more efficiently than any therapist."

"I do believe you," Rastenn said. "I cannot promise that _he_ will, though."

"Let me talk to him," Paris offered.

Rastenn shrugged. "Be my guest."

Paris crunched down in front of Vir's seat. "Hi Vir," he began in a calm, even voice, not unlike the one the Vulcan had used on Lyta. "Do you remember me? I'm Tom Paris; you've helped me, right after our arrival. You gave testimony to clear me from the accusations of that Brakiri, remember?"

Vir looked at him with bleary eyes, and after a while he nodded wordlessly.

"Good," Paris said. "Now, listen to me. I know what's happened to you. It happened to me, too, a couple of years ago. I know it's really bad… But Tuvok can help you. He helped me, too."

Vir looked from Paris at the Vulcan, then back. "How?"

"Vulcans have a method called the mind-meld…" Paris began.

Vir shivered. "More scans?"

"No," Paris replied hurriedly. "No scans. It's completely different. It serves the healing; puts up walls between you and what's happened… makes it easier to bear. And when something like that happens again, you'll be able to defend yourself better."

For the first time, something akin hope seemed to glimmer in Vir's eyes. "It will help?" he asked tentatively.

Paris nodded. "It will, I swear. But he need to focus for that. We'd only disturb him…"

"No!" Vir cried out in great distress. "Don't leave me alone with him!"

"We won't," Paris promised. "We'll be right there, just beyond that glass wall. We're not gonna abandon you – we just don't want to break Tuvok's concentration. Do you think you can do it?"

Vir looked at the stoic Vulcan again… then at Rastenn… then back at Paris. He did not seem sure about it at all.

"Will it really help?" he asked again, in a pitifully small voice.

"It will," Paris nodded.

"And you will be right over there?"

"We will," Rastenn touched his shoulder encouragingly. "You have my word as a warrior."

Vir looked at the Vulcan again. "And you will stop when I can't… when I can't any longer?"

"Of course, Mr. Cotto," Tuvok said calmly. "I can only do this if you cooperate. Shall we give it a try?"

Vir hesitated for a while; then he closed his eyes with determination.

"Yes," he whispered. "Do it, please."

~TBC~


	6. Chapter 6

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Lt. Corwin's family background is my invention. Technician Robertson is the Dome technician (played by actress Marianne Robertson) who appeared in practically every episode in Season 1. Siarann was borrowed from BanAduial's fic "A Minbari Courtship", just because I liked the idea of Neroon having a female XO.

Vir's past was already established in "Still Not in Kansas".

**

* * *

**

PART 06

Tuvok pulled up another chair opposite Vir who was trembling with fear. Kes gestured to the others to retreat with her to the doctor's office, and everyone obeyed – except Rastenn.

"I will stay here," he said stubbornly. "I will be quiet; but I will _not_ leave him alone."

Tuvok ignored him. Taking a deep breath, the Vulcan reached out and laid his fingers gently on the young Centauri's pale, sweaty face, seeking for the _kwi'lari_, the focal points of the body's bioelectric field at the sides of the skull that would enable him to establish contact.

"My mind to your mind... your thoughts to my thoughts," he murmured the ages-old Vulcan mantra. Eyes closed, body perfectly still, gentle fingertips resting on Vir's tear-streaked face, Tuvok carefully sought to gain a connection to the young Centauri's troubled thoughts.

At first, there was resistance. Memories of the most recent violation made Vir struggle against this new intrusion. He retreated into himself further and further, so that for a moment Tuvok began to doubt that he would be able to reach him at all.

Still, he held out patiently, and after a while he began to "hear" the faint echoes of Vir's inner voice. He could feel an incredible sense of anguish in Vir's mind; the young Centauri was clearly in agony. Full of fear, shame and self-loathing. A continual mental wail echoed through his thoughts.

_I failed… I failed… I failed…_

Slowly, carefully, Tuvok attempted to soothe the young man, projecting a feeling of calmness and compassion to him through the newly formed link between them. Vir's awareness practically lunged at him, clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifeline.

_Help me! Please, help me! It hurts too much!_ The terrible sadness of that silent mental plea nearly broke his heart – even for a Vulcan, such close contact with someone else's strong emotions could be a heavy burden. But he was here to help. He was old, his mind was strong. He could deal with this.

_You must allow me_, Tuvok sent his thoughts along the link. _I will not force you_…

As he felt Vir relax a little, Tuvok moved forward, searching carefully. The most recent experiences were easily found. The echoes of searing pain and humiliation lead him straight there. But there was more pain, older than that, more sadness. And Tuvok, while as stoic and restrained as any Vulcan could become after having lived a hundred years or more, he did not entirely lack compassion. He _was_ capable of caring. The agony of the young Centaury touched him deeply; it awakened long-dormant protective instincts in him, instincts that had not resurfaced since his own children had grown out of his care.

Determined to help this troubled youth as far as he was capable of, he worded the silent question, asking permission to see all that was there. _Show me_.

* * *

Night watch was a quiet affair at Command and Control of Babylon 5, and after the turbulences of the recent weeks, Lieutenant David Corwin welcomed the calmness whole-heartedly. He knew it would not last long – it never did on Babylon 5 – but at last for the moment everything seemed to be all right.

In space, there were no differences between day and night, of course, but human beings needed a certain rhythm in their lives, and so the station operated on the basis of a simulated twenty-four-hour-day, according to Earth standard. Corwin, who hailed from Earth, found that oddly comforting – even though other human crewmembers who came fro the various colonies, sometimes grumbled about it.

Sometimes he wondered whether he would see Earth ever again. When Captain Sheridan had declared Babylon 5's independence from the Earth Alliance, Corwin – unlike some other Dome personnel – had chosen to remain here. He had begun his career as a simple Dome technician, back in Commander Sinclair's times and had worked his way up the ranks slowly, until his recent promotion to full lieutenant.

Babylon 5 had long become his home. But there were days when he still longed for Earth: for the sunrise over the hills on his grandparents' farm, for the easy camaraderie working alongside other young men for his father's construction company, for his mother's cooking… even for the constant bickering of his two considerably younger sisters. He had gone to the military right after finishing school to ease the financial burdens of the family, but it did not mean that he wouldn't love and miss them. He never regretted his decision – nor staying on Babylon 5 after they had broken away from Earth – but yeah, he misses them badly.

"Lieutenant," Technician Robertson, another veteran from the earliest times, looked up to him from the Pit. "The Vorlon ambassador's ship asks permission to depart."

"Has it logged a destination?" Corwin asked with a frown. It was unusual from the Vorlon to leave at this time. As a rule, he preferred to have an audience.

"Yes," Robertson named a jumpgate that led to the Coriana system.

Corwin nodded. "Very well. Permission granted."

Robertson dispatched the message, and then they watched the Vorlon ship leave the station, floating in space like some large, exotic flower. It approached the jumpgate, and when the vortex opened, it accelerated and was swallowed by the maelstrom of energy.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Robertson asked. She was a gentle-faced blonde woman, some ten years older than Corwin himself, and in undying love with the beauty of space – and starship designs.

Corwin nodded thoughtfully. "Yes; beautiful and deadly. I think the Captain would like to know about this departure, though."

"Shall I send a report to his terminal?" Robertson asked.

Corwin shook his head. "No; I'll do it later. It's not urgent, and he had dinner with the _Voyager_ officers today."

"He must be tired," Robertson agreed; then she raised a hand to her headset in surprise. "My, but we're having a lot of traffic tonight."

"Another departure?" Corwin asked.

Robertson nodded. "It's the Centauri shuttle _Trethia_," she said, "with Lord Refa on board."

"Destination?" Corwin asked. The _Trethia_ was a small transport shuttle, used to carry people to the ships and back, not capable of hyperspace travel on its own.

"The Centauri personal liner _Jaetari_," Robertson answered.

"That's odd," Corwin said. "It's not the same ship with which he has come."

"No, she agreed. "That one is still waiting for Minister Virini."

"Hmmm," Corwin pondered over that a little. "Has the _Jaetari_ logged in a destination?"

"Checking," she consulted her screen, and hen looked up at him with a troubled expression. "They're heading for Narn space."

_

* * *

_

Show me

, Tuvok had said, but he was unprepared for the violence of Vir's response, for the intensity of the resurfacing memories. Image after image was thrown up before his inner eye; he nearly became dizzy from the cavalcade.

Vir as a small child, arriving in the house of his rich, much-respected uncle, slowly after the death of his parents. His shock when tossed into the small, barren room in which he would spend the next ten years, while his cousins had their own apartments and servants. The terror of the lessons to which he had to attend, together with them, only to be told again and again what a dumb, slow and useless pupil he was.

Vir, having barely reached consenting age when caught his uncle's eye. The years of abuse and humiliation that had followed, until the secret came out and he was swept to Babylon 5 where no-one would know him… and of his uncle's transgressions. The fear that had not left him till the last moment before leaving his transport; the fear that his uncle would change his mind hand have him killed, so that he could never reveal their shameful secret.

The years of anguish watching helplessly as Londo – the first person who was more or less decent to him – fall into darkness, inevitably. The frustration that he could never do anything to prevent that, despite the beatings he had suffered from various aliens in Londo's defence.

The short period of peace when assigned to the embassy on Minbar. The excitement over the chance to finally make his own decision, to make something _right_. The nightmares that had plagued him since the bombarding of the Narn homeworld, the all-consuming guilt over the actions of his own people.

The first meeting with Lyndisty, his arranged wife. The hope to find someone who might like him, just for himself. The deep shock when his intended turned out to be a delightedly cruel young woman who positively enjoyed killing Narns. The shame that despite this knowledge, he was still longing for her.

And the latest blow – Londo's nefarious plan to get the former Narn ambassador killed, just to strengthen his position in the Royal Court. The self-loathing that he himself had helped luring G'Kar into the trap, out of fear for his own life and that of his family. The despair that he had not been able to keep that information from Lord Refa, and thus G'Kar would die for nothing. That Londo's star was still sinking, no matter what.

It was a lot of burden for such a gentle soul to bear.

Tuvok would not take away the memories; that was neither his intention, nor his right. What he could do was help Vir to take control of them. He could show him how to distance himself from them; how to view them from the perspective of remoteness. How to relegate them to their proper place as past experience, rather than being overwhelmed by them and drowning in sorrow as a result.

His decision, Tuvok opened his mind to the troubled young Centauri, projecting a sense of peace and safety, encouraging Vir to trust him. _I will show you how it is done._

Watching them from the short distance of a mere two steps, Rastenn felt his _ren'helas_, the cerulean patches seaming his bonecrest, beginning to itch with nervosity. It was eerie watching them like that, he decided, frozen in the moment like statues, with their eyes closed, completely silent, save from the one or other intake of breath. He got the strong impression that somehow he was intruding on something very private, even intimate. Still, he was not about to leave. He had made a promise not to abandon his friend; and Rastenn of the Star Riders always kept his promises.

He stiffened to attention as he heard both men exhale slowly. Tuvok straightened, pulling his hands away from Vir's face. Their eyes opened. For a moment, they simply stared at each other in deep understanding

Then, to Rastenn's great relief, a tentative smile appeared on Vir's face. It was small and tremulous, but it was there.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"No," Vir answered in a shaky voice. "But I will… I think.

* * *

Aboard _Voyager_, Harry Kim was getting more familiar with the history of Babylon 5 than he ever wanted to be – and seeing Seven's determined face, he feared that this had just been the beginning.

"I don't know what you hope to find," he said morosely. "We've cross-checked Customs, docking logs and the indeticard records for the last four years, back to the constructing of the station, but neither the name Galen, nor a face like the one you've reconstructed with the help of the imagining program has shown up. Now what?"

"Now we will check the station logs and security records, back to the beginning," Seven answered without as much as twitching.

"What for?" Harry asked in exasperation.

"That man, Galen, knew his way around the station all too well," Seven explained. "He could move from one place to another without anyone spotting him. He _must_ have been here before; presumably more than once. And if he has, there will be records."

"Unless he has a clever little gizmo that can fool the internal sensors," Harry pointed out. "Like some personal cloaking device. In which case we'll never see him, even if he _lives_ on the station."

"Such a device would require a considerable amount of energy if activated continually," Seven replied. "I don't think he would activate it, unless absolutely necessary."

"You _think_," Harry said. "What if you're wrong?"

That question earned him a coldly superior glance that clearly declared just how unlikely _that_ would be, without the need for actual words. He threw his hands up in frustration.

"Fine!" he snapped. "Let's keep searching, no matter how futile the whole thing is. But wouldn't you at least provide some _useful_ search parameters? Gamma shift ends in about six hours, you know…"

Seven considered that request for a moment.

"Try to find cross-references for magic," she then said.

* * *

On December 8 2660, as the Earth of _this_ universe counted time, Chakotay woke up shortly before six o'clock as was his wont. He was an early riser by habit and did not need the wake-up call of the computer. As usual, he was fully awake in the moment he opened his eyes… yet this time he was a little disoriented.

Even though he was surrounded by complete darkness, he could feel that something was… odd. The bed in which he was lying felt… unfamiliar somehow, and so was the feeling of a warm body pressed against his back. He had been sleeping alone for a very long time. The scent of the room was different, too: a faint fragrance of jasmine instead of the sandalwood of his own quarters.

"Computer; lights at twenty-five per cent," he ordered.

Nothing happened.

"Computer," he began again, a little louder, but a sleepy female voice interrupted him.

"Your voice pattern isn't registered, either as a permanent inhabitant or as a visitor," she said. "The computer doesn't recognize it and won't accept instructions from you. Lights at twenty-five per cent," she added, and the room became dimly illuminated.

Chakotay looked into her beautiful eyes and smiled. "I've forgotten that I wasn't in my own quarters."

She smiled back sleepily, clearly not a morning person but endearing even with bed hair. "Disappointed?"

Chakotay glanced around him, taking in the small but comfortable place that bore the indefinable feminine touch that would make a simple living space _home_ – and shook his head.

"No. Actually, I like your quarters – even though they would probably pass in my bathroom," he added with a grin.

"Living space is precious on Babylon 5," Lillian said with a shrug; then she seemed to become very serious… almost anxious, in fact. "Any regrets?"

Chakotay shook his head again. "None. You were right. It _was_ beautiful. "He hesitated for a moment before asking, surprised by his own shyness. "Can we… would you care to be with me again?"

She laughed gently about his sudden embarrassment. "That depends."

"Depends on what?" he asked with a frown.

"Whether your bed is also so much bigger than mine," she answered, still laughing.

Chakotay laughed, too. They had managed in her bed well enough in the previous night, true, but it was decidedly too narrow for people to sleep comfortably.

"Starfleet believes in king-sized beds," he replied.

Lillian grinned. "Then I accept. Tonight?"

"Afraid not," Chakotay said apologetically. "I've got night shift today, so that the captain can attend to the prayer service. But you could visit me aboard _Voyager_. There isn't much happening at that time; I could give you the grand tour – there's much to see on our ship aside from the holodecks."

She thought about it for a moment. "You know what? I might just do that."

"Great," Chakotay couldn't quite suppress the happy grin that practically split his face. "You have day shift?"

She nodded. "Starting at oh-eight-hundred, station time… which is, I think, the same as yours. I get off-duty at sixteen hundred… in theory. Usually, it's an hour or two later. We're hopelessly understaffed in MedLab."

"We could have dinner at nineteen hundred, then," Chakotay suggested. "That would give us an hour before I take over the bridge. You could come to _Voyager_ with me, right after dinner."

"That could work," she agreed. "Will you fetch me from MedLab One?"

"You want to work through till then?" Chakotay asked.

"Not really," she admitted, "But I'll have to, I'm afraid. Where are we going?"

"Let me surprise you," Chakotay smiled and kissed her. "Can I use your shower?"

"Sure, if you're okay with the vibe showers," she said, sliding from under the duet and into a dressing gown. "I have to clean up here first anyway."

"Thanks," Chakotay vanished in the tiny bathroom; then he put out his head for a moment. "I think there is another thing you'll love in my quarters, aside from a really large bed: I have got a _real_ shower."

Lillian's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. "A real shower? With water and all?"

Chakotay grinned. "Rank has its privileges. But I'm willing to share."

* * *

Aboard his huge battle cruiser, the _Ingata_, Alyt Neroon, clan leader of the Star Riders, was pondering over the mysterious message of his nephew. He had left Rastenn behind on Babylon 5 to learn more about the human Anla'shok, in whose eyes he had so shockingly recognized the light of a kindred soul. Rastenn, as expected, had made contact with the Anla'shok – but instead of gathering intel about the man, he had requested a digital copy of the _Book of Valen_… and that Neroon came to Babylon 5, as soon as possible.

That could not mean anything good. Despite his youth, Rastenn was an experiences spy, used to work independently till the last possible minute. That he had called for Neroon after such a short time could only mean that he had come across something truly important. Something that had gone beyond his extensive repertoire to deal with the unexpected.

He had also asked for information about the _Sher'shok Dum_, the Ancient Enemy, about whose return the Religious Caste had been warning the rest of the Minbari leaders for years. The Warrior Caste – most specifically their leader, Shai Alyt Shakiri – still refused to believe it, even after Delenn had broken the Grey Council and persuaded the worker and Religious members to give her their support. They were still keeping grudges for the victory that had been denied them at the end of the Earth-Minbari war. Like Sinoval, who had taken his own life rather than surrender, they still felt betrayed by the Religious Caste.

Neroon, who had been Satai, even though only for a short while, knew the reason for that unexpected surrender, of course. Or, to be more accurate, he had been _told_ the reason – but never truly believed it. Not until that earth-shattering moment in which he saw the light of a Minbari soul shining in the eyes of the human Anla'shok.

It was a revelation that shook the very fundaments of his existence. In the two weeks since the unfinished _denn'shah_, he had done more soul-searching than in all the years since the end of the war. He had meditated on this mystery that he was only beginning to understand – contrary to common belief, he _had_ a strong inclination towards the Religious half of his inheritance, and that came in handy in such cases.

His mother was a member of the Religious Caste and the priestess of their family, and both Neroon and his late sister, who had perished with the _Drala'fi_, had been taught religious practices in more depth than Warrior Caste children usually would. But all his meditations led him to the same conclusion: if the Religious Caste had been right about the existence of the _id'Minbari_ among humans, they most likely were right about the return of the _Sher'shok Dum_, too.

And if they were, the Warrior Caste had the sacred duty to enter this war against the Ancient enemy, no matter on whose side they would have to fight. Honour would not allow them to let the Worker and the Religious fight instead of them, just because the thought to support Starkiller in battle was a repulsive one.

If there was a war, it was their duty – no, their _calling_! – to fight. To be shield between the enemy and the rest of Minbar, so that the Religious could pray and the Worker could build. Each Caste according to their calling. As it had been since the time when Valen had united Minbar and ended the Clan wars.

Still insight won through meditation was one thing; hard proof was another. And he needed proof, something he could present to the Warrior Council to counter Shakiri's arguments. The Shai Alyt was so obsessed with the so-called conspiracy of the Religious Caste that he would not listen to reason.

Perhaps the human Anla'shok could help. The Rangers walked in dark places no-one else would enter; they had always been best at intel-gathering, and they knew how things on Minbar worked. If Marcus Cole did have the proof Neroon needed, he would provide it.

Somewhat comforted by that thought, Neroon pressed the button that would call his second-in-command into his office.

* * *

Dropping Lillian off to MedLab One, Chakotay decided that he did not want to return to _Voyager_ just yet. He had promised the Captain Janeway to meet her after her duty shift ended – which meant they would have lunch in the mess hall together, and probably a somewhat unpleasant discussion afterwards – but till then, he had roughly eight hours. Sure, he did have some paperwork to do (not that it would include any actual paper, but the expression had somehow survived the centuries) but that, too, could wait. He wanted to see a little more of Babylon 5 first. Besides, he had some table reservations to make, so he decided to walk across Blue Sector to Red.

His stroll took him by Captain Sheridan's office, where the lights were down, but the door, surprisingly, was open. The Captain, wearing the same black uniform as on the previous evening, seemed to be still at work at a coffee table by the light of a small reading lamp, his eyes reddened by the lack of sleep.

For a moment, Chakotay was not sure he should interrupt the other man. But taking a second look at Sheridan's weary face he decided that the captain sorely needed a little distraction and sauntered into the office jovially.

"Good morning, Captain. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?"

Sheridan looked up in surprise. "No, no, it's fine, Commander. Would you like some tea? I find it helps me sleep."

"Just a little, thanks," Chakotay crossed over to the coffee table and took a seat opposite Sheridan. "Forgive me the remark, Captain, but it doesn't seem as if you'd had any sleep at all. Have you worked through the whole night?"

Sheridan nodded, waving a bunch of papers. "Daily reports, oxygen consumption logs, recycling figures. It never stops! Sometimes I think I stay in the War Room as much to avoid this stuff as I do to keep track of the war."

Chakotay grinned. "I can relate. On Starfleet ships, such delightful paperwork is part of the First Officer's duties. Of course, we don't quite have _this_ much – and we do it digitally. But it's still a great responsibility, isn't it?"

Sheridan's only answer was a nod and a small laugh.

"Although I can call myself lucky, as the final responsibility for these things belongs to the captain," Chakotay continued conversationally. "There are advantages in being only the second in command. Tell me, who do you share _your_ responsibility with?"

Sheridan shrugged. "Well, there's, Ivanova, Garibaldi – Franklin's still on walkabout – others. The work gets spread around."

"I didn't mean the work," Chakotay interrupted. "I meant responsibility. I'm familiar with the burdens of command; everyone comes to you with questions, problems, concerns. It can be overwhelming at times. Who do _you_ go to? Who do _you_ talk to?"

"Well…" Sheridan shrugged again, with an embarrassed grin, "there isn't anybody. It's my responsibility. I can't put it on anyone else."

Chakotay nodded again. "That is certainly true. Still, you should talk to others, share the burden as much as you can..." He trailed off, becoming thoughtful. "That is what I've been trying to provide _my_ captain with for years… if she'd only be willing to accept!"

"She isn't?" Now Sheridan's curiosity was piqued; for a moment he forgot about his own worries, just as Chakotay had intended.

"Unfortunately, she isn't," Chakotay replied. "She's the kind of person who prefers to carry the burden of the whole ship on her shoulders, which is admirable, but in the end futile. She wants so badly to do right both by the crew and the regulations she'd got ingrained perhaps in the cradle already that it loads her down till she can't breathe anymore. She's becoming more isolated, more lonely and… and rigid with every passing day."

"You mean cranky?" Sheridan asked with a sudden grin, remembering his conversation with Delenn in the War Room, not long before that dinner in the previous evening.

Chakotay grinned back at him. "I wouldn't use such a word to describe my commanding officer. It would be most disrespectful. But the fact is, she has reached the point where the crew is becoming hesitant to go to her with their worries. They don't want to add to her burden… and that makes her even more isolated."

Sheridan gave him a wary look. "Is that supposed to be a warning that I might be on my way to the same condition?"

"Aren't you?" Chakotay asked quietly. "Be honest with yourself, Captain, and consider this: if you isolate yourself from the men and women under your command, after a while they will stop trusting you. And once they don't trust you anymore, how can you expect them to die for you, no matter how noble your goals are?"

Sheridan didn't answer, but Chakotay could see that he was getting through him, so he pushed on. "When I was talking with Mr. Garibaldi the other day, he said that the person you trust most would be Ambassador Delenn. Why don't you talk to her about your concerns? She seems a good listener to me."

Sheridan shook his head. "I can't do that. Delenn's been through a lot lately! We all have! She's got enough problems on her hands without giving her mine as well."

"Perhaps," Chakotay allowed. "But perhaps she would prefer to share your burden; sometimes doing so can make one's own burden easier to bear. In fact, I'm pretty sure she would like to do so. I saw how she looked at you last night, at that dinner table. There was a time _my_ Captain looked at me that way… when we were alone, on an uninhabited planet for two months."

"But she doesn't do so anymore," Sheridan observed. "What happened?"

Chakotay shrugged. "We were rescued... and she snapped back being _the Captain_ instantly. That was the moment when I gave up hope that she might ever come out of her protective shell of principles and regulations." He rose. "I think you haven't reached that point yet… but you will, if you clutch to your burden so jealously just a little longer. Well, I have to be on my way. Thanks for the tea, Captain."

Sheridan sat motionless while _Voyager_'s executive officer left. He then put down the papers and turned off the reading lamp.

"Perhaps he is right," he murmured, still a bit uncertain how to follow that well-meant piece of advice.

* * *

Chakotay had managed to book a table in the _Fresh Air_ restaurant and even found the time to take a walk through the _Zocalo_ before returning to _Voyager_. He wanted flowers for the evening… and something special, to make his second official date with Lillian memorable. Nothing extravagant or terrible expensive – the credit chits granted them in exchange for information and some low-key technical help that did not fall under the ban of the Prime Directive would not enable him to afford that – just a little something that would be, well, _special_.

He had already figured out from their conversations that Lillian was drawn to the cultural heritage of her Hindu grandmother, but that did not make things any easier. What he had seen in her quarters spoke of a woman with artistic tastes that tended towards clean, elegant designs, without too much adornment. That was a tough one, despite the near-overwhelming diversity of wares on the _Zocalo_.

He was so deep in thoughts that he nearly jumped when Garibaldi walked up to him (which he hadn't noticed at all) and addressed him.

"Commander, you're up early," Babylon 5's security chief said. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"I am," Chakotay replied. "I just don't know what it is."

"Tell me," Garibaldi encouraged him. "Nobody knows the _Zocalo_ better than me. Perhaps I can help."

Chakotay explained his dilemma. Since everybody who counted already knew that Lillian and he were an item, there was no need for secrecy. Garibaldi nodded.

"I know just the right flowers for you," he said and steered _Voyager_'s XO to a flower stand ran by a bald-headed, elderly woman wearing a dress out of some history novel: obviously a Centauri. "I saw Londo buy these for the lady he had a mad crush on, so they must be appropriate. One can say a lot of unflattering things about Londo, but when it comes to women, he sure as hell has style."

"I can believe that," Chakotay stared at the proposed flowers in awe. They had pale, star-shaped blossoms that seemed to glow from within. "What are they and where come they from?"

"They are bio-luminescent star-laces," the florist lady explained. "They only grow on Davo, one of our planets. Rest assured, sir, that your lady will appreciate them… and your generosity. Do you want to take them with you or delivered at an appointed hour?"

"Can you have them sent to the _Fresh Air_ restaurant tonight?" Chakotay asked. "I have a reservation for nineteen hundred hours; the name is Chakotay."

"Of course, sir," the old woman said. "We deliver wherever and whenever our costumers want it. Can you spell your name? It's an unusual one; we do not wish to make a mistake."

Chakotay spelled his name, then handed over his credit chit to the florist lady, who inserted it into a reader to debit the price of the flowers from it.

"I hope you weren't planning to buy anything else that's expensive," Garibaldi commented as they strolled away from the florist's shop. "That bouquet of flowers probably wiped your credit chit clear for the next month or so." Seeing the other man's shocked face he laughed. "Oh, don't worry! They aren't cheap, but they are not _that_ expensive. Now I believe there was a shop in the next range where you could find just the right thing for Dr. Hobbs."

* * *

Siarann, who had stepped into Neroon's former place as the _shok'nali_ the executive officer of the _Ingata_ after the Alyt had taken over command of the ship, was a fierce-looking warrior, with an elaborate bonecrest, covered in spikes as only a pure-blood descendant of the Caste could have, despite being female. She was somewhat younger as her commanding officer, but well-proved, both in war and peacetime duty. She also happened to be quite a beauty.

"Alyt," she said, pressing her fists to her chest and bowing from the waist in the usual stiff, Warrior Caste manner.

"How long till we reach Babylon 5?" Neroon asked.

"By current speed two more days," she answered.

Neroon nodded. That would do. Fortunately, they had been patrolling a sector relatively close to Babylon 5 when Rastenn's call came in. He could have ordered the chief engineer to give him more speed, but there was no need to hurry. Nothing in Rastenn's message indicated immediate danger – just that he would be needed.

"Did you find the chance to speak to your family Elders?" he asked. Siarann was a cousin of Nidell, his young informant on Babylon 5, whom he wanted to offer Rastenn as a potential mate, and thus the best person for establishing contact with the family.

Neroon had already spoken to the young woman about arranging a courtship between her and his nephew, and Nidell had not been adverse. She'd just asked for a little time to think about the proposal. But they could not set anything in motion without the consent of Nidell's family. It was a lucky coincidence that Siarann was so closely related to them.

"I have spoken to Aunt Dhaliri," Shiarann replied. "Nidell's father has fallen in the war, as you know, so my aunt has the deciding word all by herself. She is Religious, which is why she insisted that Nidell be trained in the _Tha'Domo_ discipline as well, even though her heart called her to the Warrior Caste."

"I know," Neroon stomped don on his impatience. This was a negotiation between the two families, not a report from the _shok'nali_ to her Alyt; urging Siarann to come to the point would have been considered rude. "What else did she say?"

"That a bond with the Clan leader's family would be both a great honour and very desirable," Siarann answered, "but in the end, the choice must be theirs. Both Rastenn and Nidell must follow the call of their hearts."

"The Star Riders have placed the calling of one's heart above everything else from the very beginning of our Clan," Neroon reminded her. "We were the first Clan that has accepted outsiders and allowed our own to bond with those of foreign Clans. I shall not be the first Clan leader to break that sacred tradition."

"And yet you seem eager to set this courtship in motion," Siarann commented. "May I respectfully ask why?"

Neroon sighed. "I left Rastenn behind on Babylon 5 because he is _needed_ there. Yet my heart is concerned. He is young, passionate – and impressionable. Already he has shown unusual interest in an alien female. I want him safely bound, as soon as possible."

Siarann inclined her head. "That is a valid concern," she agreed. "Our young males are vulnerable without the safety of a bond. The female he is interested in, that alien… what is she like?"

"Impressive," Neroon admitted. "A warrior born, with a strength and fire that could match our own female warriors. But that is not a way that could be taken. Even if there were not the issue of the Alien Prohibition – and let me tell you, that is an issue that I whole-heartedly support – she is a hybrid, and hybrids are, as a rule, infertile."

Siarann nodded. "I see how that would be a problem, even if she were not an alien. Rastenn is your heir and the future leader of our Clan. He cannot afford a childless bond, regardless of his feelings."

"He is more than just my heir," Neroon said tiredly. "With my own mate having gone to the sea prematurely, Rastenn is the last one to give our bloodline an heir. We owe it the Clan _not_ to render it leaderless."

Siarann nodded in agreement. "Our duty to the Clan outweighs our personal interests. I hope they will find each other acceptable. They would make a beautiful couple, and Aunt Dhaliri will _not_ interfere."

* * *

Lyta emerged from what must have been the most restful sleep for years on this morning. Whatever Tuvok had done when he'd put him to sleep after coming out of the healing trance, it kept the nightmares away. Which was to say a lot, since she had _always_ had nightmares since her visit on the Vorlon homeworld. It had been a great relief having slept through a night, unbothered by them.

She felt strong, healed and powerful; almost reborn. But she also knew that now that she had healed, Ulkesh would demand her return. If she wanted to help Sheridan with those Night Watch people kept in _Voyager_'s brig, they had to make their move, and soon.

She got up from the biobed without difficulties and looked around for someone who would be able to help her. The holographic doctor was apparently deactivated; the only other person she could see was the small elfin girl, studying something on the computer screen.

"Kes?" she asked quietly. She didn't want to make mental contact just yet; wanted to give her brain as much rest as possible before using her abilities for the interrogation.

The girl looked up and smiled that strangely mature smile of his. "Lyta! You're up already! Are you hungry? Would you like something for breakfast? I'm sure Neelix has…"

"Later perhaps," Lyta interrupted her. "What I need right now is to have a word with Captain Janeway. It is urgent, I'm afraid."

Kes nodded. "Of course. I'll tell her at once.

Ten minutes or so later Kathryn Janeway marched into Sickbay with her usual brisk, business-like manner, and anybody but a telepath would have bought the show for face value. Lyta, however, although she had only met _Voyager_'s captain once before, could sense a change in the other woman, even without scanning her. Something in Janeway had been broken – not irreparably, hopefully, but she would need a long time to heal in the inside. Of that Lyta was certain. It was to her credit as an officer that on the outside she still looked basically the same.

"Ms Alexander," she said. "I'm glad that you seem to be doing so much better. Kes said you wanted to see me?"

Lyta nodded. "Yes, and thank you for coming to me, Captain. Even through _Voyager_'s comm system, it would be… risky to discuss these things openly."

"I see," Janeway became alert like a hound at the sound of a hunting horn. "Has this something to do with our… _houseguests_?"

"Yes," Lyta said. "But more with my… _employer_, to be honest. Soon, he will sense that I'm fully healed – I can't conceal that fact from him for long – and then he'll demand that I return to Babylon 5. If we want to interrogate those men in your brig, we must do it now. Before the ambassador makes his move."

She tried to suppress the cold shivers shaking her whole body – and failed. Janeway gave her a sharp look, protective instincts kicking into high gear at once.

"You don't have to return to him if you don't want to," she said. "I can offer you asylum aboard _Voyager_; the regulations don't forbid us to aid individuals in personal emergencies, as long as doing so won't influence local politics."

Lyta shook her head. "Thank you, Captain, but that would endanger your ship and your crew greatly. Vorlons do not take disobedience kindly; nor when others meddle with their business. The ambassador would tear _Voyager_ apart and drag me back by force, should I refuse to return. Besides, I'm still employed by the Vorlons. I have no chance in this."

She could feel the righteous anger building up in the captain rapidly and almost smiled. It was so typical for these foreign people to run to the aid of everyone in need, no matter the odds – or the possible consequences. It was a noble attitude… but also a deadly one, if it came to confronting the Vorlons.

"Are you his aide or his slave?" Janeway asked angrily.

"With _this_ ambassador, it's practically the same," Lyta answered dryly. "It was not him who's recruited me to work for the Vorlons, but since Kosh, the original one, is dead, I had to accept working for his successor. One does not quit service to the Vorlons. Once you get involved with them, it's a lifelong assignment… and a very short one, should you try to resist them."

Janeway snorted inelegantly. "God beware us from omnipotent superbeings and their meddling with our affairs," she said, remembering humanity's encounters with such beings in her own universe. "It never ends well."

"It seems so," Lyta agreed. "In any case, we should get on with the interrogation as long as we still can."

"Very well," Janeway said. "I'll contact Captain Sheridan and Mr. Garibaldi on a hopefully secure channel, and we'll see what we can organize at such a short notice."

"Thank you, Captain," Lyta said. "I'd like to have it done as soon as I'm here. Those men are dangerous!"

"I know," Janeway sighed. "My people have dismantled a bomb that was stuck to Babylon 5's fusion reactor, just yesterday. Who knows what other… _surprises_ they have up their sleeve."

Lyta looked at her intently. "I thought you were against your people getting involved with the problems of this universe."

"I am," Janeway replied bluntly. "But it doesn't mean that I'd condone terrorism… or sit around idly while a quarter million innocent bystanders are killed, so that one faction could make their point. I only wish my own people would trust me more; I thought after two and a half years together they'd know me a little better by now."

Lyta did not scan her; that would be against the rules, and no matter what had happened to her since becoming a Vorlon agent, there were rules she still respected. Those rules were the only link that still connected her with her former life – with he Lyta she had once been and will never be again.

But even without an active scan, Janeway's bitterness and disappointment came through to her clearly, and Lyta realized how very lonely she had been for quite some time. Sure, it was partly her fault, for retreating into the role of the _captain_ so much that her crew could barely see the _person_ anymore behind all those shields and defence mechanisms. But perhaps it was still not too late for her.

"I think you should talk to your people, Captain," she said quietly. "They might surprise you."

~TBC~


	7. Chapter 7

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Just a reminder: Technician Guerra, who only appeared in the pilot, was played by Ed Wasser – the same actor who later played Mr. Morden.

* * *

**PART 07**

Entering MedLab One, Lillian checked Marcus' condition, which she found satisfying, all things considered, and then she sat down with Dr. Hernandez to get a picture about what had happened during the night. She was shocked to hear about what had been done to poor Vir… and about his step visit to _Voyager_.

"He is still here," Maya Hernandez said. "We're treating his bruises; and besides, he has a better chance to rest here than he would in the diplomatic section."

"I'll take a look at him," Lillian promised. "Even though he had help from _Voyager_'s telepath, the long-time consequences of a forced deep scan must be taken seriously. Anything else?"

Maya Hernandez shook her head. "Nothing. It was an unusually quiet night. I wonder why I can't get rid of the feeling that this is just the calm before the storm… and a big one at that."

"Perhaps because you know this place all too well," Lillian replied wryly. "All right, then. Go and rest. We all should make the best of what little time of repose we are given."

The older doctor gave her a mischievous look. "If the sparkling of your eyes is any indication, you've done just that last night," she teased.

Lillian smiled. "I would be a poor doctor if I didn't listen to my own advice," she said. "I'll work through till sixteen hundred, or a little longer. Can you take over a little before nineteen hundred, just tonight? I'll make up to you, honestly!"

Maya patted her on the shoulder fondly. "_Muchacha_, I'm an aging woman with no social life. I'll be happy to save you from the same fate. What are your plans for tonight?"

"Dinner at seven, and then a tour on _Voyager_," Lillian answered. "Chakotay has night shift, so this isn't a real date, but," she shrugged, "I'll take what I get."

"Dinner? Where?" Maya asked.

"I don't know," Lillian admitted. "He said he'd surprise me. It's… quite romantic, actually."

"It is," Maya agreed, "and _you_ are in love."

"Perhaps," Lillian said with a shrug and a secretive smile. "Well, I have to make my round now. Have a nice day."

* * *

Ivanova stormed into C&C with a facial expression that made all duty personnel duck immediately. Apparently, this was going to be one of _those_ days again, and all Dome technicians had learned the hard way that on _those_ days one was better off becoming invisible. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Like many commanding officers, Ivanova had the ability to notice just about everything – and a temper that enabled her to make her displeasure _very_ audible.

Nobody envied poor Guerra, who had drawn the shortest straw this morning and so had to present the commander the reports from the previous night. Guerra was the ranking Dome tech here, had come aboard on the very day the station had become functional, and had a spotless duty record. For some reason, neither Captain Sheridan nor Ivanova seemed to tolerate the poor man, though, and no one knew why.

In one of his particularly suicidal moments, Lieutenant Corwin had actually had the balls to ask about the reason, but Ivanova had just told him – in a less than friendly manner – that Guerra had a creepy likeness to someone both she and the captain had… problems with, and that Corwin should mind his own business. Which Corwin had done, ever since then. He might be a little suicidal, but he was not completely mad.

After that incident, Ivanova had tried to be nicer to Guerra, perhaps to show that they were determined to be fair to him, which freaked out the poor man even more. Fortunately, there was always so much work and stress that Ivanova soon forgot to pretend she didn't hate him, and things returned to normal – or what counted as normal on Babylon 5 anyway.

She accepted the reports without as much as a glance at Guerra (who was all too happy to scurry back to his work unacknowledged) and checked last night's events. Night shift was usually quiet, so she did not accept anything overly interesting. She furled her brow at once, however, seeing the two departures recorded. She knew that the new Kosh was still aboard – her latent telepathic abilities, weak as they were, seemed to home on on the Vorlon, so she always could tell whether he was on the station or not.

She also knew that Vorlon ships could travel on their own if necessary. The old Kosh had sent out his own ship on missions alone sometimes, so this was nothing unusual _per se_. The question was rather the goal of its mission. She cross-checked the ship's official destination with the star map of the sector and the recorded Shadow activities, and her frown deepened.

Yes, her memory hadn't betrayed her. The Corianna system _was_ in Shadow territory. What the hell was a lonely Vorlon ship, and one without its master, at that, doing there?

Unless it _wasn't_ lonely, after all. Nobody knew where the Vorlon fleet had gone after the battle in which they had beaten the Shadows, a few weeks earlier.

Whatever the reason might be, Ivanova had the uncomfortable feeling that they would not like the outcome.

Setting the Vorlon problem aside for the time being, she checked last night's other departure – and her expression turned very grim. Lord Refa, heading for Narn, mere hours after G'Kar's secret departure? It was too much of a coincidence to believe it.

Which meant that G'Kar's chances to survive the trip home had dropped dramatically; and that thought made Ivanova decidedly unhappy. Sure, the Narn could be – and often was – irritating as hell, but he was a reliable ally… and sometimes a surprisingly wise man. Should anything happen to him, Babylon 5 would feel his loss keenly.

She made a mental note to inform Delenn as soon as possible. Perhaps the Rangers could be warned. Perhaps they could do something to help G'Kar escape Centauri pursuit. But even if they could not, Delenn needed to know about every event with possible political ramifications. The potential capturing and execution of the last free member of the _Ka'ri_ definitely counted as such an event.

"Commander," the technician at the communications console looked up to her, "Captain Janeway from _Voyager_ is hailing us."

"Put her through," she said in surprise.

"I can't," the technician replied. "The call comes through a secured channel."

"I'll take it in the captain's office, then."

She hurried over to Sheridan's now abandoned office and instructed the computer to establish the comm link, giving her authorization code for voice identification.

"Connection established," the artificial voice told her a moment later, and the image of Captain Janeway appeared on the screen.

"Commander," she said, nodding her greetings. "I hoped to speak with Captain Sheridan. Is he available?"

"He's just turned in less than an hour ago, after working through the night," Ivanova replied. "Can I help you? I'm authorized to handle things at my own discretion in his absence."

"I'm not questioning your competence," Janeway said. "I just thought he'd want to be present at the interrogation of our… _houseguests_. Ms Alexander says it must be done now, before her… _employer_ orders her back."

Ivanova nodded in understanding. She had only met the new Kosh once, but that was enough to decide _not_ to cross him unless it could not be avoided. She could only imagine how much worse it was for Lyta, who had to _work_ with the Vorlon all the time.

"Understood," she said. "I still wouldn't like to wake the Captain, though. This is the first good sleep he's gotten in two days… or longer."

"Will you come over then?" Janeway asked.

Ivanova shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't either. My aide has just gone off-duty, after a ten-hour-shift, and I've got nobody else whom I'd trust with the safety of C&C. But I can send you Garibaldi. He knows as much about the situation as we do – if not more."

* * *

Janeway left Lieutenant Rollins in charge of the bridge – not that there would be much to do while the ship was docked – and went down to the brig to witness the interrogation of the pirates. Lieutenant Ayala was on duty, standing behind the console operating the holding cells: big, dark and unshakable like a solid rock in the breakers. Somehow, the man managed to exclude the air of safety by his very presence.

Two other ex-Maquis, the Bajoran Trumari and Nozawa, a human of Japanese origins who knew fourteen ways to kill someone with his bare hands, or so it was rumoured, were standing in front of the holding cells, armed and ready. Security took this matter very seriously, and dispatching ex-Maquis to watch the prisoners, Tuvok had made sure that the guards would not hesitate to use force when necessary.

It was a relief to see that Chakotay had returned, too, in Garibaldi's company. He was still wearing his civilian clothes, his elegant grey jacket a strange contrast to Garibaldi's black uniform, his face watchful and wary. He knew better than anyone else that dealing with terrorists, no matter in what manner, was a dangerous thing. He had been one himself – at least how Starfleet saw things.

A few minutes later Lyta Alexander came in, escorted by Tom Paris who was about to begin his usual duty shift in Sickbay. Despite Lyta's protests, the Doctor had insisted on sending him with the recovering patient, just in case. Paris did not really mind. He was curious how Lyta would handle the situation. He was sure it would be very different from Tuvok's methods.

Tuvok himself was demonstratively absent, but that did not surprise anyone who knew how Vulcans thought about forced mind-scans. Not that Lyta planned deep-scanning these guys; it usually wasn't necessary. Members of organizations that demanded blind obedience could usually be manipulated to accept orders from anyone who seemed to have any authority. Lyta counted on that.

Nonetheless, the Vulcan opposed any forced telepathic contact on principle and refused to be part of this particular interrogation… which was just fine with Chakotay, as long as they got the information they needed.

"Which one should we take first?" he asked Garibaldi, whose men the prisoners had originally been, after all. He ought to know them best.

"Let's start with Pirello," Babylon 5's security chief suggested. "She's only recently joined Night Watch, so she might be less fanatic than the rest and won't give Lyta such a hard time."

"If she was willing to stay behind and blow up the station, she must have embraced Night Watch ideology quite enthusiastically," Chakotay commented; then he looked at Ayala. "Greg, go in with Ms Alexander, and don't take your eyes off the prisoner. If she tries anything stupid, shoot her. We can't take any risks here."

Ayala nodded, setting his phaser at heavy stun. Janeway did not interfere. This special interrogation was better left in Maquis hands. They had more experience in the area.

Chakotay took over Ayala's place behind the console and signalled Trumari and Nozawa to take up position in which they could give sufficient cover. Then he lowered the forcefield before Frances Pirello's cell, so that Lyta and Ayala could enter.

The big, burly ex-Maquis went in first, taking up position behind the prisoner, phaser at the ready. His unmoving face left no doubts that he would shoot her on the spot if necessary. He had been a guerrilla fighter, used to react quickly and mercilessly if he had to.

Lyta followed Ayala in, facing the prisoner who glared at her with unveiled hatred. Frances Pirello was a stocky woman, at least a head shorter than the telepath, with a mulish expression on her round face, and Janeway wondered briefly if Garibaldi's choice had been such a good one after all. The woman did not look like someone who would spill her secrets easily.

Yet Garibaldi seemed fairly unconcerned. Either he knew the prisoner very well – or Lyta's abilities. Whatever the reason might be, he appeared quite sure about the outcome.

Unlike Tuvok in the extremely rare cases when he had to interrogate someone telepathically, Lyta apparently needed no time to focus. She captured and held the prisoner's look easily, and told her in a cold voice that sounded barely human.

"Listen to me. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can give me what I want and you'll be left alone in this cosy little cell again. Or you can try playing a hero and resist. In which case I'll take your mind apart, piece by piece, until I find what I need. You wouldn't like _that_. I used to work for the Psi Cops once, and now I'm a rogue. I don't care what will remain of your mind once I'm done with you. I need information, and I need it now; one way or another. Have I made myself clear?"

There was so much menace in her voice that Janeway felt cold shivers running down her spine. It did not surprise her at all to see the prisoner's eyes widening and filling with sheer terror.

* * *

From the small command deck of his cloaked ship, Galen was watching Seven of Nine's progress – or rather the lack of it – with detached amusement. She was thorough, he had to give her _that_, but she had no hope to find the right answers. She simply did not have the clues to point her in the right direction.

Galen was now considering giving her those missing clues. She needed to find _some_ information at least, to get used to the idea of him and his brethren. To realize that he had been serious. Otherwise, she would never cooperate.

Hacking into _Voyager_'s computer had taken him half the night, as Federation technology proved to be incompatible with his own, but he did not mind. It had been the first purely intellectual challenge for years, and he enjoyed every moment of it. Even now that he was in, he had to move around very carefully. The system was very sophisticated, and could even adapt to new problems to a certain extent, due to the bioneural circuitry. It did not make the ship exactly alive, or even self-aware as an artificial intelligence would be, but it made circumventing the system's safeguards a true adventure.

Moving around those safeguards carefully, Galen used a BabCom unit to slip in a clue that would eventually direct Seven's search to Captain Sheridan's official log entry from January 31, 2259. From the day when Elric and his first followers had arrived to Babylon 5.

* * *

After having checked on Vir in MedLab, Rastenn left a message for Lennier, who had been Vir's friend a lot longer, after all, hoping that Delenn's aide might want to visit the Centauri and offer him some emotional support. Priests were better at that sort of things than warriors, and besides, Rastenn had other things to do at the moment.

He took the core shuttle to Brown Sector to meet Nidell again. This was one of their less-frequented meeting places, one neither of them really liked, due to the questionable neighbourhood. There were several bars involved in various kinds of shady business, many of them ending up in fights, which could attract station security. But they had used the other drop points too often lately.

Nidell was already waiting for him, also disguised as a member of the Worker Caste. Considering the suspicions towards Minbari warriors, this was the safest camouflage for them to wear. She seemed deeply concerned, and that worried Rastenn, as Nidell was not one who would be frightened easily.

"Alyt Neroon will be here in two days," she said, handing Rastenn a data crystal. "A messenger has come from the homeworld and intercepted the _Ingata_. Since he was there already, the Alyt asked him to bring you this personal message. He has a fast courier flyer, so he could be here a lot earlier than the _Ingata_"

"From the homeworld?" Rastenn repeated in surprise. "Has he told you anything about what is happening back home?"

"Not much, but it does not sound good," Nidell answered. "Tensions between the Castes – especially the Warrior and the Religious Caste – seem to be growing. There are no open hostilities yet, but it could happen any time. Since Delenn has broken the Grey Council, we do not have a ruling body that could unite our people. It is only a matter of time till Valen's Peace will also be broken… unless something happens that can give those tensions a safer outlet."

"Like the fight again a superior enemy that could unite our people again," Rastenn said, thinking out loudly.

"Let us hope so," Nidell replied, her dark eyes troubled. "According to the messenger, Shai Alyt Shakiri has ordered a great number of the Wind Swords' warships back to Minbar, just days ago."

"What for?" Rastenn did not want to give in to his suspicions, but it was hard not to do so.

Nidell shrugged. "To protect our world against an invasion, he says. But who knows what his true agenda is?"

"Impossible!" Rastenn protested. "The Shai Alyt would never turn against his own people. If he has called those warships back, he must know something we do not know yet."

"I hope you are right," Nidell said quietly, "for otherwise, we might be facing the first kinslaying in a thousand years… or longer."

"Has my uncle been informed about this?" Rastenn asked.

Nidell nodded. "Of course. The messenger had originally been sent to him. I assume the Alyt's message will contain detailed instructions for us, should he have to leave for home unexpectedly."

She did not name the possible reason that would force Neroon to do _that_. She did not need to. They both knew… and both dreaded that possibility.

"Then I shall view it immediately," Rastenn said. "Have you learned anything about the human called Morden?"

Nidell shook her head. "Nothing worth mentioning. He was here, talked to people, offering the services of his… his _associates_, as he called them – and then gave our spies the slip. I do not know how he does it, but he seems to be able to vanish whenever he wishes. He… he _plays_ with us!" she added angrily.

"Let him play," Rastenn said with a shrug. "Let him believe that he has fooled us. Make a list about the people he contacts and another one about those who keep up contact with him. We might need those names later."

Nidell bowed in perfect Working Caste fashion, just in case they were being watched. "Consider it done. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment; I need to watch my uncle's message first," Rastenn looked down from the gallery where they were standing to the bar below. "We need a better drop point in this sector. Standing here is like target practice; only that here _we_ are the targets,"

"I shall look into it," Nidell promised, and then merged with the shadows. She was getting really good at the vanishing act.

Rastenn returned to his official quarters – as the heir of a Clan leader, he had been assigned small, yet comfortable ones in Green Sector, now that he was officially assigned to Babylon 5 – and put the data crystal into a reader.

"Coded message," the computer told him. "Please provide voice print identification sample."

Rastenn said his name and rattled down his identification code. The computer declared valid identification, and the stern, concerned face of his uncle appeared on the screen.

"Greetings, Rastenn," Neroon said. "I assume you have been given the worrisome news about home already. We shall discuss those when I arrive. However, there is something I wish you to consider while I am still on my way: the matter of your unbound state. The Clan matriarch has voiced her concerns about that matter, and I happen to agree with her. It is time for you to do your duty towards your Clan and your family."

* * *

Sheridan had slept about four, probably four and a half hours only when his door buzzer woke him. Which was a good thing, actually, as this sleeping period had been too short for his body to shut down completely, and so he was reasonably awake by the time he opened the door for Garibaldi… a seriously worried Garibaldi.

"Michael, what is it?" he asked. Garibaldi being worried was not such a rare thing, on any average day, but this time, the security chief looked as if he'd been wrapped in a dark cloud of concern.

"We have a problem, Captain," Garibaldi told him. "Lyta wanted to scan this Night Watch scum before the Vorlon would call her back; so we went to _Voyager_ and did it."

"And why was I not informed about this?" Sheridan asked, his brows knitting together in a displeased frown.

"You have just gotten the first snatch of sleep in two days," Garibaldi replied. "Ivanova promised to break my arm, should I wake you; and she's a woman who keeps her promises."

"I see," Sheridan suppressed a grin. He might be the military governor of Babylon 5, but the person everyone feared like the coming of Judgement Day was Ivanova. Rumour said it had already been true when Jeffrey Sinclair had been in command of the station. "So, what have you found?"

"Two more Night Watch bases," Garibaldi told him sourly. "One in Brown Sector and one in Red. It seems some of the bastards have been hiding in plain sight."

"Well," Sheridan sighed, "it would have been too easy, were Grey 17 their only hideout, wouldn't it? But at least it was their largest base… or was it not?"

"It seems so, yeah," Garibaldi agreed. "The place where they were hiding their weapons and most of their technical gizmos, like the black light camouflage suits… although we're still investigating how they were able to build a bomb there. Their rat hole in Brown Sector seems to be a similar place, just a lot smaller. We can take it out with minimal risk. The one in Red Sector, however…"

"That makes things complicated," Sheridan agreed. "Taking them out in such a crowded section could lead to lots of collateral damage."

"Yep," Garibaldi nodded. "Especially considering the fact that they are operating from the middle of the business area. If they spot a security unit approaching them, there would be plenty of potential hostages to choose from. It could be ugly; and we need to take out both bases simultaneously, or they will slip through our fingers again."

"Can we do that?" Sheridan asked in concern. "Do we have enough men we can trust? Do we have the _time_ to have every single one of them scanned, to see whether they are trustworthy or not?"

"We don't," Garibaldi admitted. "But we must make our move, Captain, and we must make it _now_. They were able to build that bomb unnoticed; a bomb that could have killed us all. Who knows what else do they have up their sleeves?"

"Was Lyta unable to find out anything about their further plans?"

"The ones she scanned were small fish; cannon fodder that wasn't told much. Well, with the exception of Jack, that is, but he's so insane it's hard to figure out what's reality and what's a figment of his mind."

"Jack? That would be Officer Bruton, the guy who used to be your second in command, and who tried to kill you?" Sheridan clarified. "He didn't make the impression of a crazy man to me."

"Back then, he probably wasn't," Garibaldi agreed. "Lyta says someone has tampered with his mind since then, though. Put up an Asimov block – whatever that might be – around a big part of his memories, so he wouldn't be able to tell us things, even if he wanted. She can't remove it, she says. If she tried, it would probably kill him, and still do us no good."

"Do you think she told the truth?"

"Yeah. Whatever I might think about telepaths, whatever the Vorlons might have done to her, Lyta is still a decent person."

"I don't doubt that," Sheridan said, "but what are we gonna do now? We can't let these people stay on the station and sabotage us left and right. We must smoke out their nests; and we must capture at least their leaders, Armstrong and that Malcolm Biggs character. Without them to coordinate the rest, they would be a lot less dangerous."

"I know," Garibaldi sighed. "And honestly, I can only see one way to deal with them: we need help from _Voyager_."

Sheridan leaned back in his seat and shook his head slowly, regretfully.

"I don't think that would be possible," he said. "Captain Janeway's made it adamantly clear that she will _not_ get involved in the inner struggles between us and EarthGov; and I don't think that Commander Chakotay would go against her orders in this particular matter. There's only so far he can go without endangering his position, and he's gone far enough already."

"I know," Garibaldi said. "I don't want to go behind Captain Janeway's back in this matter, though. I'm planning to ask her face to face."

"And you expect a positive answer?" Sheridan asked doubtfully.

Garibaldi shrugged. "Well, we won't know until we tried, would we?" he said. "Even if she says no, we won't be any worse than we are now."

"True enough," Sheridan admitted. "But I want a backup plan, Michael. In the likely case that she _does_ say no. This matter must be dealt with, one way or another, before we have to face the bigger evil: the Shadows."

"I know," Garibaldi rose. "Zack and Lou are working on it already. There still are a few people we can trust unconditionally: like Malcolm Cupertino, who resigned rather than join Night Watch. There are a few more of his sort, but not enough. With the rest, we just can't be one hundred per cent sure… and that's not enough. That's why we need help."

"Can't you take the Narns?" Sheridan suggested.

"I could, but then the culprits would know at once that we're after them," Garibaldi pointed out.

Sheridan sighed. "Very well; let's give it a try. I wouldn't put up my hopes too high, though."

* * *

Gregor Ayala gave Kes, who entered the brig area with a medical scanner in hand, a fond smile. As a rule, Ayala did not smile often, having a naturally grim disposition and still mourning the loss of his wife and his two sons somewhere in another reality, but few people could se Kes and _not_ smile. There was something eminently likeable in this small-boned, big-hearted girl… even though he knew, rationally, that in the eyes of her own people Kes no longer counted as a child. But she _did_ look like he Flower Fairy, sans the butterfly wings, and especially the human crewmembers tended to handle her as if she had escaped a children's fairy tale.

Everybody loved Kes, and thus both Ayala and Trumari, who also stayed in the brig area after the prisoners had been interrogated, gave her identical friendly grins. She answered their greetings with that patient smile of hers that made her look so much older at once.

"The Doctor sent me to perform a quick scan on the prisoners," she explained. "He wants to make sure they have not suffered any lasting damage from the telepathic interrogation."

"And wouldn't _that_ be a crying shame," Trumari commented cynically; he had not forgotten having found Lyta Alexander in a puddle of her own blood and Dalby with a PPG aimed at his head by that madman. "It couldn't happen to any nicer guys…"

Kes gave the Bajoran a reproving look. "The Doctor sees it differently," she said, "and so do I."

"Yeah, because you don't know what they've done; and what they'd be capable of if they weren't locked up," Trumari said.

"You think so?" Kes asked softly. "You think I do not know what they are thinking at this very moment? What they are feeling? Their hopes, their fears, their anger and hatred?"

She stepped closer to the cell holding Garibaldi's ex-aide, a handsome, dark-haired young man with madly glittering black eyes. The man glared at her with unveiled hatred, his face twisted into an ugly scowl.

"This one," she continued softly, "Is not simply insane. I sense a darkness in him I have never sensed before. It is similar to the minds of those aliens from fluidic space, the ones Seven calls Species 8472… and yet different. Older, more powerful… a lot more malevolent."

"You mean this guy isn't even human or what?" Trumari asked, getting visibly nervous. No one aboard _Voyager_ had pleasant memories about Species 8472.

Kes shook her head. "No," she said, "he _is_ human. The darkness that has touched him is not his own… but it has inhabited him for a while, and it will call out for others of the same mind. The sooner he leaves _Voyager_, the better for us." She turned around abruptly. "I will perform the scans later. Tuvok must learn about this."

* * *

"Mr. Garibaldi, you must be kidding!" Captain Janeway stared at Babylon 5's security chief in shock.

They were sitting in her 'ready room': a small room opening directly from _Voyager_'s bridge that was part office, part coffee lounge. Also present were Chakotay, who had finally managed to change into his uniform and had come to have their usual working lunch with his captain, and Tuvok, called out from the middle of his daily meditation, if the black robe he was wearing could be any indication.

Garibaldi had expected Janeway's knee-jerk rejection, based on recent experience. But he was not willing to give up just like that. Not without a fight anyway.

"On the contrary, Captain," he said as calmly as he could manage under the given circumstances. "I'm trying to avoid major bloodshed in a frequented business area."

"And for that, you need _our_ security officers?" Janeway asked. "I thought you had trained men for that sort of job."

"We do," Garibaldi said. "Well, we _did_. But two third of them have left when we booted out Night Watch, and the sad truth is, we don't know whom we could trust from the rest."

"That's certainly unfortunate," Janeway replied, "but still doesn't entitle us to get involved in your internal affairs."

"Actually, Captain," Tuvok intervened smoothly, "regulations allow to provide help for the local law enforcement, if there is an official request from the ruling body of the given colony."

"Yes; if the request comes from a legally elected government, which isn't exactly the case here, is it?" Janeway riposted. "And even in that case it's left to the captain's discretion. I don't see any valid reason why we should interfere in this matter."

Garibaldi took a deep breath before answering. Losing his temper wouldn't help here, he knew that. What he needed were good, solid arguments.

"Look, Captain," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "If I attacked the terrorist cell in Red Sector, they'd spot my men from a mile, and lots of innocent bystanders would be killed. I'd like to avoid that, if possible."

"Why don't you evacuate the area?" Janeway asked.

"Because they'd realize what was going on," Garibaldi replied, exasperated, "and submerge in the crowd at once. Surprise is our only advantage here."

"What makes you believe that our people would be better suited for the job?" Chakotay asked. "They don't know the area half as well as your men do."

"Yeah, but they are new here," Garibaldi said. "Armstrong and the others won't recognize who they are, assuming they'd wear civilian clothes."

"That wouldn't save anyone once the shooting begins," Chakotay pointed out, playing devil's advocate.

"I know, I know," Garibaldi rubbed his brow in frustration. "But you have those energy weapons that can be set to stun, right? You could knock out Armstrong's men _before_ they'd start shooting people randomly… _if_ we managed to sneak up close enough to them."

_That_ argument finally made the _Voyager_ officers think. After a moment, all eyes turned to Tuvok, hoping that his vast experience in security matters would help find the right answer to Garibaldi's request.

"Mr. Garibaldi's arguments do have their merit," the Vulcan said after some consideration, "but so do Captain Janeway's concerns. We know too little about the nature of this conflict to declare without doubt whether we are allowed to officially aid Babylon 5 security in this matter."

Garibaldi's face fell. He was hard-pressed to hold back a rather rude remark about Starfleet regulations.

"However," Tuvok continued, as if he had not seen the anger and disappointment on the human's face, "I believe there is a way to make a compromise. Clearly, we cannot intervene _officially_. This is an internal matter, and Starfleet security has no jurisdiction here. But if a few people would _volunteer_, unofficially, to help prevent a bloodshed and save innocent lives, I believe regulations could be… bent a little to allow it. Especially if the persons in question have only temporary Starfleet status."

"In other worlds: you're willing to look the other way, as long as the ex-Maquis do the dirty work," Chakotay commented dryly. "How very… _Vulcan_ of you."

He was rewarded with a supremely arched Vulcan eyebrow.

"Your people have a matching saying for this situation, Commander," Tuvok said with equal dryness. "_It takes a thief to know a thief_, I think. Or, in this particular case, should we perhaps say _terrorist_?"

For a moment, it seemed as if _Voyager_'s executive officer would hit their chief of security. Seeing Chakotay's expression, Garibaldi caught a glimpse of the ruthless freedom fighter lurking under that usually calm surface.

"If I remember correctly, you used top be part of those actions you seem to condemn now so summarily," he said coldly. "Granted, it was part of your camouflage as a spy on my ship. But that doesn't change the fact that you helped us blow up Cardassian ships and military depots, and destroy labour camps. So don't think you were any better than us, just because you had been planted on my ship with the sole purpose to lure us into a trap."

He shook himself like a dog after having fallen into a pit full of snow; then he turned to Garibaldi, now visibly calm again.

"I'll see to it that you get all the volunteers you need," he said. "And I promise you that they will do a good job taking out our 'fellow terrorists'. We're used to that sort of guerrilla attacks. Just tell me when and where."

Garibaldi handed him an electronic notepad. "To be honest, I was counting on a positive answer from you," he said. "Here are all the details you'll need to know."

"Fifteen hundred?" Chakotay checked out the data. "That will barely leave us an hour to get prepared."

"It's been my experience that this is the quietest hour in that particular section," Garibaldi explained. "We're trying to keep the numbers of potential victims as low as possible."

"Understood," Chakotay considered the possibilities for a moment. "It would be the best if you gave this Ayala, though. He knows best who'd likely volunteer and where they would be the most useful. Tell him to assign me to any team he finds most suitable."

"Commander, there is no need for you to participate in this action," Tuvok said, disapproval clear in his even voice.

"Yes, there is," Chakotay retorted. "I won't send my men anywhere I wouldn't be willing to go myself."

* * *

Less than an hour after having investigated the Night Watch people, Lyta Alexander checked herself out of Sickbay… much to the chagrin of the holodoc, who wanted to keep her another day, at the very least. But she knew she had tested the patience of the Vorlon to its limits already and did not want to test it any more; not for a while, at least. With Kosh, she had never had to ask herself whether her actions would be approved or condemned; with Ulkesh, she never knew what to expect.

Just before her getting injured, the new ambassador had ordered her to remove 'all distractions from the way of her work', as he had put it. Those 'distractions contained all her personal belongings, save a few changes of clothes, and every piece of furniture that had been in her quarters. She had only been allowed to keep a mattress, as lenience towards the human body's need to sleep. She could not even imagine what further sacrifices would be demanded from her… but she had the feeling that giving away everything she had ever possessed had not been the last of it.

She had been very close to Kosh; closer than to anyone else in her life. She had hoped that the new Vorlon ambassador would be similar in nature, but during their very first encounter she had realized that it was _not_ so. During her time on the Vorlon homeworld, she had been indoctrinated to obey _any_ Vorlon unquestioningly, and despite the dark secrets that she had been shown, as long as Kosh was alive, she had done so willingly.

Kosh, in his ancient wisdom, had been a great inspiration for her, and carrying him inside her an intimacy beyond human imagination. Carrying Ulkesh, on the other hand, had been a very unpleasant experience. This new Vorlon did not treat her like a _person_; she was merely a tool for him, and – as he had made her feel on more than one occasion – a rather unsuitable one.

Her current situation was not what she had expected when agreed to work for the Vorlons. Kosh, at least, had genuinely _cared_ for the younger races… for humans… for _Sheridan_ in particular. Working for Kosh had meant helping her own people, even though she often did not understand the ways that would lead to that goal. She could not feel any of that interest for mankind's welfare from Ulkesh… or from any other Vorlon, for that matter.

She wondered whether there would be a way for her out of this trap; in the heart of her hearts she knew that there would most likely be none. The new shielding technique Tuvok had taught her worked well against any other telepath, but an enraged Vorlon could shatter her shields to pieces in a second. As long as there was _one_ Vorlon around, she would always be vulnerable.

_Oh, Kosh_, she thought desperately, _what have you done to me? How am I supposed to go on without you, if your own people have grown deaf towards our pleas?_

She allowed herself to wallow in self-pity for a few precious moments. Then she took a deep breath and pulled herself together again. Feeling sorry for herself led to nothing. She needed help if she wanted this new Vorlon to be dealt with; help that went well beyond the powers of everyone on the station.

Beyond the powers of everyone limited by mere flesh and blood.

She thanked the Doctor and Lieutenant Paris for their care and left _Voyager_, aiming straight for the garden, before Ulkesh could have caught any stray thought from her and moved in to intercept. She rode the core shuttle to the Zen garden, as this was the place with the least possible distractions. She sat down on the bench, focused all her Vorlon-enhanced mental powers, and sent out a desperate call for help to the only person she could hope to be able to aid them… assuming he was still within reach.

She kept sending as long as her strength lasted before collapsing on the bench, empty like a burned-out oil lamp.

* * *

The part of the entity that still identified himself as Kosh, weakened and greatly limited in his strength though he might be, was awakened in his hiding place by that powerful mental distress call. It had not been addressed to him, but it shook him up from his slumber nonetheless.

Regaining semi-consciousness, while nested in a vessel that could not respond, could not even recognize his presence, was a long and arduous process. He understood that the greatest part of what had once made him to the person he had been – that had made him _Kosh_ – was irrevocably gone, had fallen victim to the Shadow attack. His ship, another part of him, was also gone… and the thoughts of his brethren, as little as he could perceive from them, seemed to have taken a dark turn.

At the moment of his 'death' he had hidden part of himself in the only somewhat compatible vessel within reach. It had been a good hiding place, as the vessel had not even been aware of his presence and thus hidden him well; but now he needed to move on, should he still want to make a difference.

He could not use his previous vessel, the one he had grown so familiar with in such a short time, any longer. She was now being used – _abused_ would have been the more proper term – by his dark brother. He needed someone else.

Stretching his consciousness all over the station – and carefully avoiding any contact with the Dark Ones still present – he searched for the right choice. It did not take him long to find some interesting possibilities. They were not from his own reality, true. But they had _potential_; and it would be only a temporary merging anyway. There was not enough left of him to remain longer than absolutely necessary.

For now, he was content to hide in his oblivious vessel; until he could make contact with those strangers. He would not switch for a while yet. Staying where he was, he could get the most complete picture about how the war was going, study his possible chances, and watch the moves of his brethren. For a while, he would remain with the one named Sheridan. It was a good choice, as long as he still had to hide; and the human would need his presence, soon.

But once that part of his mission was done, he would move on, to a more powerful and receptive vessel, through whom he would be able to make his move. To make things right – hopefully. All he had to do till then was to wait and to watch; both things he had millennia-long experience with.

~TBC~


	8. Chapter 8

**THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD**

**by Soledad**

**Author's notes:** For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.

Armstrong is the nameless Night Watch leader who had several appearances in Season 3. Since he was played by Vaughn Armstrong, I simply bestowed the actor's name upon him.

**

* * *

**

PART 08

Lennier found Rastenn's message when he returned from his regular meeting with the visiting Rangers; Marcus still being restricted to MedLab, he had taken over that particular task for the time being.

At first he found it strange that Neroon's nephew would send him a message to begin with; due to their different allegiances, they were anything but friends. That was a fact that not even their current, surprisingly insightful conversation had changed… and _would_ not change, not for a while. Not as long as Delenn and Neroon remained adversaries.

Besides, he had already told Rastenn what he was allowed to tell – what Rastenn _needed _to know. What else could have remained unsaid between the two of them?

Deciding that guesswork would not take him anywhere, Lennier shrugged and ordered the computer to play the message. It did not surprise him that it turned out to be a coded one – Rastenn was his uncle's spy, after all, and spies tended to be a little paranoid. Thankfully, he only needed voice identification to read it.

The Rastenn on the vid was a very concerned one; in fact, this was the first time Lennier had seen him display anything but calm arrogance – the typical Warrior Caste attitude.

"I do not have time for details," he said without preamble, "but since you are a friend of Vir's, I think you ought to know about this. He is in MedLab One in a… delicate condition and could use the support of a friend. And perhaps the ambassador would need to know what has happened tonight as well. I have to go now and meet my uncle's messenger, but… it would be better for Vir _not_ to be alone; for several reasons."

With that, the message ended, leaving Lennier in a seriously worried state of mind. He could not even guess what might have happened to Vir, but he supposed it had something to do with the visit of Minister Virini and Lord Refa as well as the sudden departure of the latter for Narn space during the previous night. Add G'Kar's own hurried departure only a short time before _that_, and the implications did _not_ look good at all.

Contrary to common belief, Lennier was not as meek – or as naïve, for that matter – as appearances might lead one to think. He had been trained in the unarmed defence arts of _Tha'Domo_ in the temple from his early childhood on; those arts included tactical thinking as well as actual physical combat. Plus, as Delenn's aide for two and a half years, he was privy to plans and information very few other people would be. He could imagine why Lord Refa had felt the need to visit Narn in such a great hurry, right after G'Kar's departure. He just could not imagine what Vir's role might have been in all this.

He wished he could speak with Rastenn personally. But if Neroon's nephew would be meeting his uncle's spies, not even another Minbari – or even a Ranger, for that matter – would be able to find him. Warrior Caste spies were highly capable, and, despite his youth, Rastenn was one of the best.

That left one person Lennier could ask: Vir himself. And since – according to Rastenn's message – Vir was in need of a friend, Lennier decided to pay MedLab One a visit.

* * *

Wearing his old leather garb – the one he had worn in all his years as a Maquis – brought back a strange feeling of _déja vu_, Chakotay found, strolling with the similarly-clad Ayala along the _Zocalo_. The shop that served as one of the Night Watch operations bases was near the end of Babylon 5's 'shopping mile', but still in a frequented area. They had to be very careful.

He glanced around, checking for his people unobtrusively. He saw Trumari and Tabor, both wearing the oversized, asymmetrically-cut tunics and ceremonial earrings of their native Bajor, approaching slowly from the opposite direction. Chell, wrapped into a cloak so brightly coloured that it positively hurt the eye – not to mentioned it contrasted with his blue skin almost painfully – was talking to the Centauri a mile a minute, holding the elbow of the man (who had a decidedly trapped look) in a vice-like grip, but kept an eye on his commanding officer all the time.

Further away, Ken Dalby and Mariah Henley strolled along the booths, arms linked in the manner of an old, married couple... which they were in all but the letter of the law. Mariah even had the cheek to put his small, old-fashioned phaser on her girdle and wear it as if it were a strange-looking ornament.

"Everyone is in position, Cap," Ayala said in a low voice, as if they were discussing the knick-knacks displayed on a Brakiri gift shop's counter. "Hogan and Gerry are waiting at the core shuttle stop. Nozawa and T'Ral are watching the turbolift… er, transport tube. Yosha and Gerry have just taken up position at the other end of this section and can be here in no time, using the maintenance tunnels Mr. Garibaldi's shown us."

"Very well," Chakotay said. "Let's do this."

Ayala tapped his comm badge twice, signalling the others – _and_ Garibaldi's troops that were approaching the other base in Brown Sector at the same time – that they were going in. There was no verbal answer, of course, but he could see the two Bajorans closing up from one side and Dalby and Henley from the other one; even Chell let go of the Centauri, who could not get away from him quickly enough, and moved up towards them.

"Our surprise is already within," Ayala informed his commanding officer.

Chakotay nodded. "Good. Let's move on."

They entered the clothes' shop. It was lucky for them that the Night Watch people had not chosen a more specific establishment as camouflage… exotic alien instruments, for example. Faking interest for _those_ would have been a lot more complicated.

The shop owner turned towards the opening door with convincing interest; he must have been well-trained for the job… unless he _was_ the genuine item, of course, used as a pawn by the others. He was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a face one could have seen a hundred times and yet not remember afterwards, which could be useful in this kind of work.

"Gentlemen," he said jovially, "what can I do for you?"

"We can wait," Chakotay said, gesturing towards the only other customer, a slender, dark-haired young man with pointy ears, who had obviously been there for quite some time already.

The shop owner waved off his concern, though.

"Oh, that gentleman is still looking for the right jacket for his betrothal ceremony," he explained. "He said it would take some time, so I can help you in the meantime. What would be your pleasure?"

While Chakotay involved the shop owner into a discussion about the best possible gift for a woman he had just begun to date, Ayala's experienced eyes checked the shop for hidden doors, weapons and surveillance devices. He found quite a few of the latter ones, but none of the rest, which meant that there either were none, or they were very well hidden. Finally, having seen all he could without the help of openly use scanners, he slapped Chakotay on the back.

"You're overcomplicating things again," he said. "I told you: if you wanna impress her, you ought to buy her a silk shawl – that one, in yellow, would match her colouring nicely. Don't you think it's pretty?" he turned to the alien customer who had come closer to watch them choosing.

"Indeed," the young man said, reaching out for the shawl in question over the shoulder of the shop owner. "If I may be so bold."

"Sure," the shop owner moved to the side to make room for him – and then dropped heavily over the counter, crushing his delicate wares, seemingly without reason.

"Oh, my!" the young alien exclaimed, trying to soften his fall. "He fainted! Surely, there must be a shop assistant somewhere who can help him!"

He laid the shop owner onto the counter, hurried to the back door and began hammering on it with his fists. "Hello? Somebody? Help us, please?"

Chakotay had a hard time to suppress his grin. The famous Vulcan neck pinch was a handy thing, especially among people who had never heard about it, but who would have thought that young Vorik was such an excellent actor? First the tale about the betrothal suit, and now this spectacle… It had surprised everyone that he would volunteer for an almost purely Maquis mission, but that he would be so good at it…

"Hey, kid," he said to the Vulcan, "don't hammer a dent into that door, would you? If there's anyone at all, they don't hear you. We must go in and see if we can find them."

He could see through the semi-transparent front door the two Bajorans blocking the entrance and nodded to Ayala, who had memorized the layout of the shop from the blueprints shown to him by Garibaldi. Ayala stepped to the back door and – shielding his own actions from the surveillance devices with his broad back – inserted a key card (also courtesy of Garibaldi) into the security slit, overriding the lock. The door opened.

"Go," Chakotay said. "I'll cover you. Vorik, let in the others and stay here to secure the shop."

"Aye, sir," the Vulcan replied crisply. He produced a phaser from under his tunic, called in the two other teams plus Chell, then he took up position behind a row of long cloaks hanging near the front door – and waited.

* * *

Seven of Nine stared at the computer screen in slight confusion. She was currently watching Captain Sheridan's log entry from February 6 of the previous year; an official entry recording the visit of the so-called 'technomages' on Babylon 5, and also his personal entry, which was supposed to be confidential… but such minor hindrances never bothered Seven when on her quest for knowledge.

_In January 2259, over one-hundred technomages were gathering on our station_, Sheridan's personal log entry said. _Their reason: a great storm was coming and they were leaving to preserve their knowledge and to keep it from being used to ill purpose. They said they do not know where they are going and with luck, should not return within a human lifetime. One of them – the one named Elric – told me they had nothing to say to anyone on this side of the Rim; perhaps they expect to find someone or something on the other side._

She had cross-referenced the term but all she got was a short entry in the station's database; an entry that was apparently based on some arcane Centauri legends.

_Long ago, technomages used to be quite common on Centauri Prime_, the entry, apparently authored by Ambassador Londo Mollari himself, said. _They are long gone from the homeworld, but they have been seen on other planets and even in the depth of space from time to time. They are a secretive order that uses science to achieve the effect of magic; their organization predates the Republic. While we cannot say with certainty that they originated from our world, it is known that membership is not restricted to one race or one world. There have been known human, Vree, or, as some say, even Pak'ma'ra technomages, although the latter is hard to imagine._

_Technomages use technology in new and different ways. They combine ingenuity with the technological knowledge of the various races and the result is startling. Little is known about what technologies are used and how they are controlled. Not all of their powers require technological aid, though. Knowledge and intelligence give them a great edge. They study the mysteries of laser and circuit, crystal and scanner, holographic demons and invocations of equations. These are the tools they employ. And they know many things. Secrets that they share with nobody else._

_It is said that they almost never travel. They do not like to leave their places of power. To see even one of them is a rare thing. To see more than one at a time is considered a very bad omen.__Before our first Emperor took the throne of the Centauri Republic, he consulted three technomages, who gave him their blessing. That is an image that is very powerful for those of us who still believe in the old ways. They can be a source of great trouble, unless one knows how to deal with them._

And that was all. A handful of commonplaces and superstitious rumours. That was not something Seven of Nine would be satisfied.

Obviously, those people _did_ exist, and – based on visual records – the enigmatic Galen person she had met on Babylon 5 was one of them. They seemed to have unusual skills (or technology) to create illusions, and considering what their leader had apparently done to the Centauri ambassador (Seven had actually found _that_ entry first) also a twisted sense of humour.

This still did not explain, however, what this Galen character could possibly want from _her_. It was unlikely that he would have mistaken her for one of his own kind; they most likely knew each other well, and besides, she was nothing like them, nothing at all.

And yet this Galen had spoken to her as if he could offer her an alternative; something that would give her existence true meaning, a real purpose. That was an option she intended to learn more about. Yet before she would confront Galen – assuming she could track him down in the first place – she needed to learn more about technomages in general. Those short entries she had found revealed almost nothing… at least nothing of true significance.

She checked the records again to see who had had the most extensive contact with them. The answer was Captain Sheridan, of course, but she rejected that possibility at once. She could not corner the station commander and demand information about something she wasn't even supposed to know of.

She rejected the Centauri ambassador for the same reason. But there was another possibility. It seemed that the ambassador's aide had been the first to make contact with these technomages. _And_ he seemed a friendly and talkative fellow, who had already befriended several _Voyager_ crewmembers. That sounded promising.

Seven started a search for Vir Cotto's possible location – breaking into Babylon 5's security system had not been a true challenge for someone who could communicate with computers directly – and was surprised to find that the young Centauri had visited _Voyager_ last night. She also found indication that the man was currrently treated in MedLab One.

That was convenient. She would have needed a very good reason to enter Babylon 5's diplomatic section. For visiting the MedLabs she only needed a simple excuse… again, not a true challenge.

Deciding to find out the reason for Vir Cotto's nocturnal visit in Sickbay later (she generally preferred to know everything that happened aboard _Voyager_), Seven of Nine terminated her search in favour of paying MedLab One a visit.

* * *

Zack Allen had not been so anxious since the big showdown with the Night Watch people several weeks earlier. He would have preferred to be with the teams attacking the remaining two Night Watch bases, but Garibaldi had forbidden him to do so. He had been a Night Watch member himself – out of naïveté, not because he had bought the propaganda, though – so he'd have been the first to be recognized… and that would _not_ be a very friendly reunion.

Sometimes he wondered what would have become of him, had chosen Armstrong's side instead of Garibaldi's. Would he be hiding somewhere in Brown Sector with the others right now? Or would have his help made enough difference for Armstrong and his cronies to emerge from the conflict victorious, arresting – probably even spacing – the captain, Ivanova, the chief and who knows whom else? Would Babylon 5 now being run by Night Watch?

He did not regret his choice. He never really understood the intricacies of politics, the power plays going on under the seemingly hale surface; but he trusted Garibaldi. He trusted that the chief would know what was the right thing to do; that following his commanding officer, _he_ would do the right thing, too. He had to trust that… or there was no point to anything he was doing here.

Parting ways with the rest of his team (who had been assigned to attack the Night Watch base in Brown Sector) Zack rode the core shuttle to the Garden. In order to make everything look normal, he needed to show increased Security presence in all the places where nothing of importance was going on. Smoke and mirrors and all that stuff, as Garibaldi called it.

Leaving the shuttle, he took the elevator to the ground level of the Garden. He looked around, taking in the illusion of peace the Garden always created. It seemed so calm, so serene, so very beautiful. So very out of place here, on the last frontier against a malicious enemy… and yet so comforting.

Until he discovered the black-clad figure of Lyta in the Zen garden, lying in front of the bench like a broken doll, that is.

Of course he recognized her immediately. How could he not? He liked her… liked her a lot. He had liked her ever since she had got back to Babylon 5 again. He had felt for her… for all the things she had gone through, ever since severing ties with the Psi Corps. And lately he had even begun to think that probably, just probably, he could do right by her.

Granted, there _was_ a big gap between him, a simple security officer, and the kind of life Lyta was leading. A life he might never understand; although he hoped he could, one day. In any case, he wanted to at least _try_. Lyta was the kind of person who made a guy _want_ to try. There was something about her that made him nuts.

He had thought about asking her out once or twice, but never got the courage to actually do so. She was so different… and she had been through a lot, what with the Psi Corps and the Vorlons and all. Maybe she didn't even want that kind of connection; not now, not here, and likely not with someone as unimportant as he was.

And yet, seeing her collapsed on the sand like a wounded bird only made him feel all the stronger for her. Perhaps he ought to say something, after all – before he would lose the chance to do so entirely. But first he needed to see that she got help… whatever might be ailing her. _If_ there was anything he could do, that is.

He was almost afraid to check her pulse. To his great relief, it was there… weak, but relatively steady. Well, that was good, for starters. He activated his comm link.

"Zack to MedLab," he said. "I need a medic in the Zen garden, as soon as possible."

But before the person on the other end of the connection could answer, Lyta began to regain consciousness. She caught the end of his sentence, and grabbed his hand… either for support or to stop him, he was not sure.

"That's… unnecessary," she protested. "I'm… I'm better now… just very tired. Could you… could you help me get back to… to my quarters? All I need… is rest."

Zack did not really buy it. "Are you sure about that?"

She nodded. "Please… no medics."

"All right, all right," Zack sighed in exasperation. "MedLab, cancel that. We seem to have the situation under control. Thanks."

But when they reached Lyta's quarters, he stared at the barren room with only a naked mattress on the floor with trepidation.

"Lyta! This is no way for a human being to live!"

"There is no other way… not for the moment," Lyta replied, her strength slowly returning. "I can't fight a Vorlon; not over something as trivial as furniture."

"Does the captain know about this?" Zack asked.

Lyta shook her head. "No; and I don't wish him to learn about it, either. He has far more important concerns at the moment. Please, Zack; if you're truly my friend, don't tell anyone. _Especially_ not the captain. This is not the right time for personal grievances."

Zack mulled over that bit for a while.

"All right," he finally said. "I'll keep it for myself…. For now. But after this mess is cleaned up one way or another…"

"… nothing of this will matter anymore," Lyta interrupted. "Thank you, Zack – for everything."

And then she passed out promptly, to Zack's utter trepidation.

* * *

Chakotay and his men found the back room of the clothes shop empty. Well, empty of any people, that is; with suits and dresses and coats hanging everywhere, it seemed the ideal rat trap.

"Nobody home here," Trumari stated the obvious. "What now?"

Ayala consulted his tricorder. "There are two maintenance tunnels leading out from this room, here and here," he showed the others the hidden entrances. "Unfortunately, they lead to vastly different directions. We'll have to split up and follow the two routes as Ms Alexander had taken them from the prisoners' minds."

"What about side branches and such?" Chakotay asked.

"There are few of those, and Garibaldi has placed Narns at the exit points," Ayala explained. "They've got pictures of the suspects and will – hopefully – be able to pick them out of the crowd, should thy trey to escape through the side exits."

"Hopefully," Chakotay replied with emphasis. "This must happen very fast, or things will escalate something really ugly. "All right; Greg, I'll go with you, Dalby and Henley. Trumari has the most experience with this kind of thing; he'll take Tabor and Nozawa and check out the other way. Keep radio silence, and remember our hit code: two touches at every new stretch you've found clear; three if you've made contact."

"And don't forget to mute your tricorders," Ayala added, "or else they'll shoot you before you can realize they're there. I've seen them in action; they won't hesitate to kill."

"Neither will we," Trumari replied darkly.

"But only if there is no other way," Ayala reminded him. "The actual goal is to get them alive, so that their brains could be picked for more information. Are you all ready?"

"Sure," the others chorused as one man.

Ayala nodded. "Well what are you waiting for? Let's get it done!"

The ex-Maquis team split up and vanished in their respective maintenance tunnels. Chakotay took head in his own group, as he'd always done while still a freedom fighter. The tunnel led them straight to Brown Sector, where it forked.

"Where now?" Dalby whispered.

Ayala checked the layout of the section on his PADD.

"The one on the left," he decided. "Thirty metres further down must be one of those temporary lodgings that usually are rented by visitors passing through the station, who only spend here a night or two."

"They have their base in a hotel room?" Henley asked in surprise. "How would that work? How can they stay there without being found out?"

"Perhaps they rotate as hotel guests," Chakotay shrugged. "That way, they won't draw any unwanted attention; especially if they do it under false names. They have good enough contacts to get fake ID-chips, I guess. Let's go!"

It took them at least twenty minutes to reach the end of the side tunnel. Only in situations like this did one realize how huge Babylon 5 actually was. Before opening the hatch, Chakotay pressed an ear against it.

"I can't hear a thing," he whispered, "but that doesn't mean they aren't there. We're going in – set phasers at heavy stun. Attack pattern Gamma-Six. At three…"

The others nodded in understanding. Chakotay counted back from three on his fingers; then he tossed the hatch open, and they all jumped into the room behind it, scattering in all directions and rolling into a ball, to offer as small a target as possible. With the same roll, they fired widely-fanned, heavy-stun beams into the room in a random pattern.

One had to give their adversaries one thing: they were well-trained. Simultaneously while being his by the stun beam, one of them managed to fire his PPG at the intruders. Fortunately, he was unable to take proper aim, so only Henley's hair got singed a little. Which caused her to grumble for a week afterwards, but that was another matter.

But that was the only attempt of resistance. Only seconds later, everyone in the room was heavily stunned and lay on the floor. Chakotay counted them.

"Five down, six more to go," he commented in satisfaction. "Whom do we have here, Greg?"

Ayala, the man with the vital information, checked his PADD again.

"Four of them are small fish," he replied. "But this one," he nodded at a grey-haired, middle-aged man with sharp features, "is one of the chief honchos. This is that Armstrong character Garibaldi's told us about. The one who tried to take over the station a couple of months ago with the other Night Watch types."

"But neither of them is Malcolm Biggs?" Chakotay asked. Ayala shook his head. "Well, then we need to be very careful, people. _He_ is the puppeteer… these are just the puppets. Let's call in station security; then we can move on to help the others."

Henley called Garibaldi on the pre-appointed channel and asked for 'clean-up service' to be sent both to the clothes shop and the hotel room. They handcuffed the unconscious terrorists, just in case, and searched them for any possible hidden weapons – they didn't find much. Apparently, the guys trusted their PPGs to be enough in any conflict. _Well, they were apparently wrong_, Ayala thought.

Dalby and Henley were left behind to keep an eye on the captives until Security arrived. Chakotay and Ayala hurried back to the fork in the maintenance tunnels, and chose the other way to give Trumari's group reinforcements.

They had barely brought half the way behind them when Chakotay's comm badge vibrated. Once. That meant, the other group had run into unexpected trouble and needed help. Since there was no longer any danger for the business area, Chakotay activated the communicator.

"Angry Warrior to the tribe," he said. "Move in onto our tertiary target, from both sides. Elf boy, keep the beachhead. All others – move it!"

The ex-Maquis jumped into action from all the different positions they had taken in. Only Vorik and the ones guarding the transporter tubes and the core shuttle station of Red Sector kept their posts, in order to cut off the way of potentially fleeing terrorists.

"Hurry up, Greg," Chakotay said through gritted teeth. "I've got a very bad feeling about this."

"You and me, Cap, you and me," the big, burly ex-Maquis replied, moving through the low and narrow tunnel with surprising speed and agility.

* * *

Lennier found MedLab one in a bit of disarray when he arrived. It seemed that once again, Ms Alexander had been brought in, after her most recent release from _Voyager_'s sickbay, although nobody appeared to know what could be wrong with her. Mr. Allen, Mr. Garibaldi's aide, stood at her bed, while Dr. Hobbs was taking readings, his face grey with concern,

After a few moments of watching the highly professional blur of activity around Ms Alexander's bed, Lennier finally spotted a med tech he knew.

"Mr. Kiriyama," he said politely, "I've come to visit Vir Cotto. Can you tell me where I can find him?"

"Observation Room Two," the Asian med tech nodded in the direction of said room. "But he needs to rest. Has gone through severe trauma and must _not_ have any more stress."

"I do not intend to be stressful," Lennier replied seriously. "I just want to sit with him for a while. He is my friend."

"Well, go on in, then, "the med tech said. "If there's anything the poor guy can use right now, it's a friend."

Lennier readily did as he was told, and he found a somewhat bruised but otherwise unhurt Vir sleeping quietly in the observation room. Well… _physically_ unhurt, in any case. As for his mental condition… the deep, dark rings under his eyes and the new, previously unseen bitter lines in the corners of his mouth spoke another language.

The med tech had spoken of severe trauma, and whatever it might have been, it had left traces. Traces that wouldn't be easily erased – in the worst case, they wouldn't be erased _at all_. Still, Lennier tried to remain optimistic. Vir was resilient; more resilient than most people would give him credit. He was one of those people who bent easily but didn't break easily.

Vir must have felt his presence, because he opened his eyes and gave Lennier a weak smile. His eyes were weary and full of pain, but – to Lennier's relief – he didn't seem completely shattered. Just deeply hurt; which was bad enough, but still not beyond healing.

"Lennier," he said. "What are you doing here?"

He spoke clearly, in a calm, even tone, even though his voice was as weary as his eyes were. Lennier guessed that whatever had happened to him, it had already been dealt with, and Vir was getting through the aftershocks at the moment.

"I cannot leave you out of my eyes for a minute," the Minbari chastised his friend gently. "I turn my back for a moment, and you get in trouble as soon as I am not looking."

Vir actually laughed at that, which did a great deal of good to ease Lennier's heart.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try to take better care of myself – for your sake."

"What happened to you?" Lennier asked.

Vir made a small, dismissive gesture with a chubby hand – a gesture Lennier had seen too often, whenever the young Centauri was speaking about himself. Vir didn't have a great deal of self-confidence, which was a shame indeed.

"Oh, nothing unusual," he said. "Caught up in Centauri politics; got used as an unwilling and useless tool by both sides… that sort of thing."

There was so much sadness in his voice it almost broke Lennier's heart. He knew that Vir considered Ambassador Mollari as some kind of mentor, and while he wasn't blind towards Londo's faults, he'd do literally _everything_ to help him.

"What did he make you do?" he asked quietly.

"He forced me to lure G'Kar into a deadly trap," Vir answered in defeat. "And then Lord Refa's men caught me, and his telepath tore my mind to pieces. And now G'Kar will be arrested, tortured and publicly executed, and Lord Refa will be triumphant, and all that because I was too weak."

"A forced scan?" Lennier hissed, leaving Vir's self-recriminations unaddressed for the time being. He'd work on those later. "How deep?"

"All the way," Vir replied tiredly. "They know everything about me; including how I helped Narns to escape labour camp while I served on Minbar as temporary ambassador. I'm a dead man, Lennier – unless your government grants me asylum."

"And they let you go after this?" Lennier was truly bewildered. That wasn't the usual Centauri way to deal with political adversaries… or their co-workers.

"Oh, I'm sure they were going to execute me; _after_ they'd squeezed every bit of potentially useful information out of my brain," Vir said bitterly. "It seems that befriending a Minbari spy does have its advantages, though."

Lennier nodded in understanding. "Rastenn. He truly must like you very much – the Warrior Caste does not get involved with the affairs of other species, as a rule."

"Rastenn," Vir admitted. "He broke me out of the room where they kept me, got me to _Voyager_ – with the help of Mr. Cole, I assume, as I doubt he'd have contacts of his own already. Mr. Tuvok, that Vulcan security chief of theirs, performed something they call a _mind-meld_ then, putting back the pieces where they belonged, somehow… I have no idea how. He isn't even a doctor, I understand. But he's a hundred years old, they say, and trained for this sort of thing. However he did it, I am grateful. I still might be executed in the near future, but at least I won't be an insane, slobbering wreck in the meantime, and that means a great deal to me."

"Why are you still here, then?" Lennier asked.

"He put my mind back together, but a forced deep scan also causes a nasty physical shock… or so the doctors say," Vir replied with a shrug. "I'm still weak like a baby. Dr. Hernandez says it will take days until my body has finished dealing with the trauma, so they want to observe my condition for at least another day. I don't mind, actually – they have less chance to get to me while I'm here. And the nurses are very kind."

He didn't say _pretty_ or _friendly_ as Londo would have done, and Lennier understood that kindness was not something his friend had often experienced in his young life. He tried to say something… comforting but didn't seem to find the right words, and that shamed him deeply. What kind of friend was he if he couldn't even give a little comfort?

While he was still struggling with himself, the doors of the observation room slid open again, and in walked a tall, blonde vision of a human woman in a form-fitting blue jumpsuit, on such high heels that the mere sight of it made him struggle for balance. How human females were capable of walking on such dangerous footwear – and why they felt the urge to do so in the first place – remained a mystery for him.

The woman walked closer to Vir's bed and looked down at him with large, doll-like blue eyes. Over one of her eyes there was some kind of cybernetic implant. That and the exoskeleton covering her right hand revealed her as the cyborg lady from _Voyager_, of whom Lennier had already heard. Well, perhaps she wasn't a cyborg – not entirely – but definitely the closest thing.

"Vir Cotto?" she inquired, raising her unimplanted eyebrow. "I require your assistance."

* * *

When Chakotay and Ayala reached the last known base of the Night Watch terrorists, they found it suspiciously empty… well, empty save from Trumari's group, every single member of which was lying unconscious on the floor.

"Anaesthetic gas!" Ayala hissed, throwing one of the transparent breathing masks to Chakotay and pressing the other one onto his own face. The adhesive seaming of the mask adapted immediately, so that he was now safe from any possible gaseous substances or pathogens that might have been in the air.

Chakotay followed his example in a great hurry, hiding a smile. _Nobody_ but Greg would have thought to keep those masks on him all the time – but again, as Greg liked to say, he was _born_ ready. Ready for anything life might throw in his face. This continued alertness had saved Chakotay's life more often than he would care to count. He considered himself a level-headed and careful leader – well, most of the time anyway – but Gregor Ayala kept surprising him with things that sounded very logical in hindsight yet would never have occurred to him in advance.

Which was the reason why Ayala had always been his second-in-command. Not because of their decades-long friendship, although it _was_ good to have someone watching his back whom he could trust unconditionally. Not for reasons of technical savviness – Ayala was good, but Torres was better, and so were Hogan, Tabor and even Dalby. What made Ayala unique and supremely important was his thoroughness. If there was _any_ chance of something going wrong, Ayala had already taken it into consideration and was prepared to deal with it. Like now.

"Be careful, Cap," he warned, scanning the room both with the tricorder and with the experienced eyes of a guerrilla fighter. "They can be hiding somewhere in the room still."

"That's unlikely," Chakotay replied. "The room is practically empty, save these boxes; and _they_ have been pushed tightly to the walls. There isn't enough room for anybody to hide behind them."

"We can't be sure about that," Ayala said soberly. "Our local knowledge is very limited; and there can be hiding places the cannon fodder we've questioned wouldn't even know of. I suggest doing a heavy-stun beam sweep here, too."

"I'm all for thoroughness," Chakotay shrugged. "Just be careful whom you aim that phaser at."

This was an old joke between them, originating from their youth, at which time Greg had once accidentally hit Chakotay with an old-fashioned phaser pistol they'd found while exploring a former battle site. Fortunately for Chakotay, the weapon had been set at light stun, so that he recovered after an hour or so, but poor Greg never lived it down.

They both grinned and began with the stun sweep, slowly, methodically, careful to cover every inch in either direction. They were almost done when – from the corner of his eye – Ayala spotted a movement among the shadows. In the next moment, a man wearing one of those damned black light camouflage suits stepped forward, becoming visible due to having moved, and aimed his PPG directly at Chakotay.

"Chak, no!" Ayala screamed when the PPG shot hit his friend's broad chest, but he was too far to protect Chakotay with his own body. His training, however, kicked in. He stunned the assassin and forced himself to finish the stun sweep they'd begun, in order to avoid any other unpleasant surprises.

Four more camouflaged terrorists fell to the floor with loud thuds. Only when he was sure there could be not more of them hiding anywhere did he hit his comm badge.

"Ayala to _Voyager_. Chakotay has been shot. I need an emergency beam-out, directly to Sickbay."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," the concerned voice of the duty transporter technician replied. "I don't know where you are and what's interfering with the transporter beam, but I can't get a lock on either of you."

Ayala said something in Cardassian that would have earned him a prompt execution from the spoonheads – he only used expletitives in the language of the enemy in times of extreme stress – then he took a deep breath to calm down.

"All right," he sad. "Beam Paris over with an emergency kit to MedLab One, and inform Dr. Hobbs that I'm taking Chakotay there. We'll see when and how we can get him back to the holodoc. Ayala out."

He changed the frequency and called all the ex-Maquis who took part in the action.

"Ayala to all teams. Mission accomplished. Clean-up teams needed. Chakotay's down, though; I'm taking him to MedLab One. You know what you have to do, so do it. I'll stay with the Cap. Ayala out."

Now that the necessary calls had been made, he could finally look after Chakotay – and the sight was _not_ encouraging. Chakotay had a nasty-looking burn in the middle of his chest, his hand was clammy and his breathing shallow.

Ayala swore under his breath and felt around himself for the ever-present hypospray without which he'd never start any mission. He found it in his pocket and shot Chakotay with everything it contained: something to prevent infection, something to prevent inflammation and something to support his heart till the medics arrived. It was the standard Maquis cocktail they always used – one he hadn't needed for a long time. He knew he had to stabilize Chakotay before they could move him – he was just not sure he could do it. The emergency shot was not nearly effective enough for such severe injuries.

Laconic creature as he was, he still almost burst out in tears when Paris came in running, with a med team of Babylon 5's MedLabs pushing a gurney in tow.

* * *

When Lyta came to, she had a splitting headache and felt ridiculously weak. She was vaguely surprised to find herself in MedLab One – and Zack Allen sitting at her bedside, perched on a very uncomfortable-looking stool.

"What… what happened?" she asked.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Zack answered gently. "I found you in the Zen garden, remember? You were… unconscious. Then you came to, demandad to be brought to your quarters - and passed out again."

"Oh… Lyta found it hard to think. "I… perhaps I've a bit… a bit overstrained myself."

"Doing _what_?" Zack was still light years from understanding things.

"I… called for help," Lyta whispered.

"Er… what?" Zack was starting to feel as if he'd suddenly entered some sort of weird alternate reality.

But Lyta had already fallen asleep again.

Zack sighed and rubbed his burning eyes. Looking up again, his glance fell upon Captain Sheridan, who was standing in the door of the observation room.

"What did she mean with calling for help?" Zack asked him in honest bewilderment.

Sheridan shook his head. He looked a little better, now that he'd slept a few hours, but still every bit as tired as Zack felt. They must have gotten him out of his bed, which could only mean that the action against the Night Watch people had been finished.

"I have no idea," he replied. "And quite frankly, that scares the shit out of me."

The confession surprised Zack greatly – even shocked him a little. He'd always thought that nothing could shake Sheridan's self-confidence. Was even annoyed about that fact sometimes.

"What exactly does scare you about it, Captain?" he asked.

"Several things," Sheridan answered slowly. "Firstly the very fact that she apparently sees our situation serious enough to call for help. Secondly, that she might see the new Vorlon ambassador as a threat, against which we'd need help. And thirdly that she actually might now someone who'd be able to deal with an out-of-control Vorlon."

Zack thought about those aspects for a while, then he nodded. "I see your point, Captain," he said in complete agreement.

A moment later, a med-team rushed by the observation room with a gurney, _Voyager_'s pilot following them with a concerned face. On the gurney Commander Chakotay lay, with a nasty-looking PPG-burn in his chest. Now concerned himself, Sheridan got hold of Ayala who was hurrying after them with an exception as near to panic as he was capable of on his usually stony face.

"What happened, Lieutenant?"

"We ran into a bit of trouble in one of the Night Watch hideouts," Ayala summarized. "Chakotay was shot. They need to stabilize him before he'd slip away into a coma… or we won't be able to beam him over to our Sickbay."

"Did you get all the targets, at least?" Sheridan asked.

Ayala nodded. "Stunned, captured, delivered to the holding cells, identified… all but one."

"You mean one of them is still on the run?" Sheridan asked with a frown.

Ayala shrugged. "No plan is absolutely waterproof. Perhaps he's been elsewhere on the station, minding his business, while we got out their rat holes."

"I see. Who's the one missing?" Sheridan asked.

"You won't like it," Ayala replied grimly. "It's that Malcolm Biggs."

Sheridan and Zack looked at each other, realizing where the missing terrorist could have been. After a moment, Sheridan shook off the shock and activated his link, calling Garibaldi.

"Michael, find Ivanova and put her under guard. She's in extreme danger."

"She won't like it," Garibaldi commented.

"And I don't care," Sheridan replied. "I want her safe. Biggs might be after her. All the others are counted for."

"Understood," Garibaldi replied curtly. "Will do."

Sheridan deactivated his link and looked at Zack in anguish. "I just hope we're not too late already," he said.

~TBC~


End file.
